


The Birth Lottery

by worldswrst (thehotinpsychotic)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dystopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 31,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehotinpsychotic/pseuds/worldswrst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lakeland used to be an extravagant town of rolling skies, dense forests, and clear, glistening lakes. However, after a disease strikes the area, ushering out the majority of surrounding population through migration or death, a small sect of leaders are left in charge. These leaders entirely reform the government, the workforce, the social conventions, the way of life. </p><p>Living in the Lakeland dystopia is like playing the lottery- a birth lottery. It's all about the skills God gave you. The gifts you are born with affect the rest of your life, for better, or for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Suffering

Within weeks, Lakeland had turned from a place of lilies and rolling skies to what could only be called a wasteland. Bodies of the dead littered the streets, bloating to the point of combustion. If you were unlucky enough to be walking by when a corpse burst, you'd have to duck for cover. If you were to come into any contact with bodily fluids of the dead or the infected, it was likely that the Suffering would spread to you. 

No one could explain the Suffering. The summer that the illness reared its ugly head was a quiet one, just like every other summer in Lakeland. It was a small town based on a clearing in the center of lush forests overflowing with pines. A clear, glistening lake bordered the outskirts of the town's north side. The lake was used for recreation as well as all labor, and most importantly, for drinking water. The village was sleepy with a population floating beneath five hundred. Its people lived comfortably, spending the day completing chores and their leisure resting in the soft sun. 

Never had the sun shone so glaringly, nor had the heat come in such miserable waves, as the summer that the Suffering began. Although explanations could not be found, the outbreak proved to be the most insidious calamity to strike the earth. It started from nothing, a mere fever and mildly annoying rashes. Within hours, that person would be sobbing on their deathbed. 

The Suffering took its course over an interval of about five hours in three distinct stages. For the first hour after infection, a fever would fester and prick at the forehead, the throat would dry and inflame, and scaly red patches littered the skin. That was stage one, Crimson, they called it. The next stage involved an itch all across your body, but mainly eating you away on the inside and outside of your throat. Some claimed the sensation all but reached their intestines it was so far down their throat. Many couldn't help but scratch the skin raw, only worsening the already present hives. This stage was appropriately named Burning. The final stage was the most deceiving of all, the staged affectionately labeled Death. The symptoms would suddenly ease up, each effect becoming more bearable than before. After some time of this short bliss, the esophagus would swell to the point of closing off, leaving the victim to suffocate. 

Asphyxiation was a common fear among townsfolk. Few things seemed more painful, more excruciating than gasping for air that could not reach the lungs. Consequently, certain men and women that identified symptoms of the Suffering would scramble for easier deaths. Many climbed the local courthouse, each dangling over the ledge for a time unique to them before falling to their end. Though they hadn't realized it, in doing this they contributed to further transmission of the disease. As gruesome as it may be, any airborne blood of theirs that landed on a passerby would infect that citizen. 

The fact that it was passed on through bodily fluids such as blood and saliva was what kept the Suffering around. Lakeland was so quickly swallowed by the sickness that who it had come from was untraceable. The town's best guess as to how it was spread so rapidly was through the water supply.

Children were often called upon by their parents to fetch water from the nearby lake. Many used their hands to drink straight from it before filling their pails and buckets. An infected child must have collected water, drinking from the lake as they did so and contaminating the only source of water for the town. Other families used that same water for every task in the household as well as consumption. Within three days, a quarter of the population was dead. 

Those who managed to stay healthy flocked to the woods in search of a neighboring town. What they didn't know was that surrounding areas had caught wind of Lakeland's epidemic and fled the region, leaving nothing but forest and abandoned clearings for over ten miles in every direction. The rest of the world had left Lakeland in a passive aggressive quarantine for dead. 

Anyone who ran to the woods got lost in the terrain and died within a week from exposure. However, unlike the dozens upon dozens dead from the Suffering, those desperate souls hadn't passed in vain. Their bodies lay stiff and cold along a new source of water. 

However, much of Lakeland wasn't there to see it. As much as three fourths of the original population had been wiped out, leaving behind eighteen families for a total of approximately one hundred and ten people. Although they continued to function as they had before, they built their subsequent society on the basic ideas of isolation and protection. They decided that following generations would never hear about the fatality of the Suffering, would never see the toxic waters of the lake, would know nothing of the world that had so purposely failed them. 


	2. The Grim Reaper

John Walker was never a man of good intentions. However, no one would call him one of bad intentions, either. He was the type of person that had an unsettling balance of attributes and faults, that kind of man that you could never get a clear picture from. Regarding most issues, he was on the fence more often than not, and he seldom gave a strong opinion. He was about as neutral as they came, which was appropriate, seeing as he held one of the most objective positions, that as the examiner of the Eleventh Year Child Assessment.

The job title was a mouthful, so he was solely referred to by most as Examiner. Many had a basic grasp of what he did - he interviewed all of the eleven year old children, three weeks worth of hour long sessions each day for every child. What they didn't know was the fact that he, and only he, determined whether or not the child would reach their next birthday. He was not in charge of scheduling the elimination, recording it, or even conducting it. All he did was decide if the death were to take place. It seemed like a small job in comparison to the latter, and Mr. Walker may have agreed it was simple in his younger years. It wasn't until his twenty-third year on the job that he saw any difficulties in playing the Grim Reaper.

Quite a few of the schoolchildren circling his neighborhood called him Grim. They knew nothing of his title as the reaper, but merely nicknamed him this for his permanent forbidding expression.

John was not a man without joy, no matter how many townsfolk told you the opposite. Even at his elevated status and his robotic demeanor, he too was human and took pleasure in particular things. There were certainly mornings where getting out of bed was easy, afternoons seemed to last minutes, and falling asleep was no chore. John Walker may not have had happy moments, but he had good days. Another fact was that if Mr. Walker was having a fantastic morning, he would be the only one to know about it. His neutral, displeased expression was just about as severe as his face at times of uttermost delight. He always looked as if he was had just received bad news, and at that, was having a hard time swallowing it. His dark, thick eyebrows hung low to his sockets, bringing even more shadows to his beady brown eyes. A hook nose dominated his profile, and thin, curled lips did little but frown. His weathered skin was ashy and pale, suggesting a ghastly appearance. His remarkable facial features, combined with his staggering height and horrid posture, almost made him a caricature of the Grim Reaper, a role he was forced to play out for many years.

An examiner rarely stayed around as long as John did. While the pay was more than generous and the benefits fair, it was not for these reasons that men quit the job by their three year anniversary. It was guilt. Guilt would tear through them, making soup of their insides as their conscience gnawed away at their minds. The voices of the children they'd sentenced to death rang in their ears, and the eyes of those souls replaced their own. They forgot many of their cases' names, but never a face. Child psychologists were never fired, only resigned. Not a single one had reached their third year on the job, so when John passed this milestone, colleagues were impressed. When eight years passed, they were ecstatic. Fifteen went by, and they were confused. By the time that 20 rolled around, they were wondering how John Walker lived with himself. How could this man point a finger towards dozens upon dozens of children's deaths, only to put on a tie and do it again the next day? Had he no shame? Everyone involved in the euthanasia process knew that not only was it unethical, but practically sacrilegious. God himself turned at the sight of it, so those men could only pray against what might happen when they died themselves.

Something differentiated Walker from those other men. Again, the subject of his mortality was brought to the table from a skeptical standpoint. His coworkers had poked fun at John's robotic demeanor from day one, but it wasn't long before they actually began to question whether he was human. Many were wise enough to recognize that their imaginations were getting ahead of him, so they just wrote Walker off as an oddball.

He was somewhat of a community black sheep, mowing his lawn at ungodly hours of the night in his robe and slippers. He drank coffee, black, but only if he was allowed to add some fresh grounds to his cup. Everyone had labeled him a peculiar one, including his wife, but she claimed that was why she loved him. Having always been attracted to the eccentric, she fell for a man's aesthetic, not his soul. The marriage was not one without care, but one without passion. It lacked an intensity, festering on like a weak fire, dim sparks struggling to preserve the fading flames.

They never had children; his wife was barren. It wasn't an ache they felt severely, but one they endured almost constantly. John had always related to children better than his peers; appreciating kids' unwavering acceptance. While they may have noticed a difference in John from the other adults, they wouldn't say so because to them, it wasn't noteworthy. Their interests were prioritized to pianos and remote controlled toy cars.

And a conundrum was raised. How could a man who adored children possibly be the leading hand in their execution? The question had been asked by even Walker himself. The only reasonable conclusion he could come to was one of tradition. He credited his lack of empathy for an equal lack of exposure. He was assigned the job naïve to its responsibilities, just as those had been before him. Over the years, elimination was what was ingrained into his mind as normal. He saw that he admired children, that was, only until they stopped being efficient. A child marked problematic would be examined extra closely on the day of their Assessment, and many did end up in the ground, just outside the perimeter of their city. Their burial sites bore no grave markers, their names no legacy.

 


	3. Tricks

 John took the exact same route home every day. The houses were about as familiar as the back of his hand, yet he still gazed at them as though they had just been brought to his attention. Although he loved the quaint homes that lined his path, they couldn’t compare to the kids he’d occasionally encounter. 

Around the summer, many children were home alone with their siblings for a greater portion of the day. Depending on their parents’  occupations , their mom and dad wouldn’t be home until three in the afternoon at the earliest. That was when the scholars and royals could clock out and call it a day. Merchants and craftsmen held a middle ground of five p.m., laborers trailed behind at six, and the lords fell farthest at eight o’clock.  This work cycle left children to their own devices for hours, and while families could apply for a babysitter, the waiting list was long and favored higher ranked families. 

This meant that during the summer, the laborers’ block was gushing with children. Not that John would ever know; when he walked by, they had a tendency to hide and duck their heads. The only time he could ever hold a conversation was when they needed a kite down from a tree or a stray soccer ball returned. 

Ezra Jacobs was no exception. John first met the boy on a hazed June evening. Having spe nt extra time on a particularly troublesome session, he was in more of a rush than ever. 

He was in a brisk pace down the laborers’ block, this time taking no heed of his usual scenery. When a kickball came hurling just a few feet before him, he nearly tripped over the damned thing. 

Regaining his balance and grabbing the ball, he looked for its owner, to see no one around. Staring in the direction the ball had come from, he started off that way, prepared to settle the ball in a nearby yard. Just as he was crouching down, he heard the words, “A little help?”

Peering over at the boy, John frowned. Ezra was born paralyzed from the waist down, leaving him bound to a wheelchair. “You throw this at me, son?”

Ezra shook his head. “No,  sir,  wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Then how’d it find its way over here?” John demanded. 

“I didn’t mean to; it was an accident,” Ezra insisted. “I was just practicing.”

John raised an eyebrow. Knowing that Ezra was physically incapable of playing   kickball, but unable to say it, he asked, “Practicing just what?”

"Tricks," Ezra answered simply. 

"Show me," John prompted, placing the ball into the boy's lap. 

Ezra stared at the ball, looking as though he was about to break a sweat. He glared at the damned thing, but nothing happened. He didn't even attempt to reach for it. 

"Never mind," Mr. Walker dismissed, a little annoyed. "You just keep your ball to yourself, you hear me young man?"

"Yes, sir," Ezra mumbled, pushing himself off in the other direction. 

Despite the disappointing 'trick', John found himself having a liking to Ezra. The boy came from a long line of laborers, men that were not prided on their strength, but rather utilized for their disposability. Men like these had played their hand in the birth lottery and came back with a losing ticket. Everyone gets the same chance, but in the end, you either win or you don't. In the case of the birth lottery, you either are or you aren't, and people like Ezra's family just didn't have what it took to lead the type of life everyone in Lakeland yearned for.    


Still, John saw promise in the boy. Whether it was because Ezra carried himself a certain way or because he was the first kid to have a friendly conversation with John, Mr. Walker could see the child moving onto greater things than the Laborers block, greener pastures than what he'd grown up with. John prayed for that kid to break the mold and, in a way, he did. He just didn't do it in the way John was hoping. 


	4. The Extraordinary

That twenty-third year of employment as the Examiner was a time filled with the extraordinary. This last year would later be filled with so much more than John could ever imagine, but he didn't know that yet. The first spectacular event was his barren wife Carol becoming pregnant.

She had been feeling under the weather for some three weeks before she finally gave in and went to the doctor. John had advised for her to go sooner, but she was a prideful woman almost to fault; she acted as though something as simple as a doctor's appointment lowered her worth.

What eventually got her to make the visit was John's concern of meningitis. She hated enlisting in others for help, but not as much as she'd despise dying from an easily treatable illness.

Over at the hospital was a field day of testing for Carol. The doctors knew of her inability to conceive, and while she was showing all symptoms of pregnancy, this was a diagnosis that they ruled out almost immediately. The possibility of pregnancy was hardly considered. That was until a more detailed analysis of her urine sample came back from the lab.

The results proved that Mrs. Walker was pregnant. All of the medical staff had heard of the medical miracle before the word ever reached Carol , who needed to be reassured that she really was carrying a child. She was in as much disbelief as everyone around her, if not more. She contacted John immediately, telling him the stunning news.

John was over the moon. Years and years of an empty house, void of children's enthusiastic presence, were coming to an end. The optimistic innocence of a child could be just what the severe nature of the Walker house needed.

The neonatal care started immediately; the doctors were concerned by both Carol's age and her mistaken infertility. They were going to do everything they could to keep that baby alive, not only for the fetus itself, but for the childless Walker family as well.

Even with the child in the womb, John was a happier man. While he wasn't remarkably miserable to begin with, one would think so by the way he looked and carried himself. Now his body language matched his emotions more times than not, when they were previously always out of sync.

As for Carol, she wasn't quite sure what to make of everything. Within days, it seemed that the entire population of Lakeland had heard of Carol's little bundle. She hadn't been showing yet; that was to come later, yet everywhere she went it seemed someone brought the topic up. Whether it be a neighbor, coworker, or even a child,  everyone only wanted to talk about the baby on the way. While Carol was anticipating the baby's arrival, she grew tired of the constant questions. "Just what does John have to say about it? Do you know the sex yet? Any names in mind?" They were all the same. Carol knew that these people were just trying to make polite small talk, but with such courtesy comes routine. And of course, repeated routine will bring a lack of attention and a lack of depth. Carol often found herself at a crossroads with humanity. On one hand, they didn't care. No one did, or at least not as much as they claimed to. All of these people around her weren't listening; they were pretending out of habit. But at the same time, she couldn't be angry with those guilty. While they didn't care specifically about whatever situation Carol may be facing, they pretended to. They never pretended with malicious intent. These things that didn't matter to them could for a short conversation because they cared for Carol. Whether or not they realized it, they knew that ignoring was neglecting, and that neglect could lead anyone down a dark road. 

Carol saw the light in those around her. She was prone to making accusations against human nature, only to come to realize an alternative. This different perspective was always what made her believe in the good again. It was what got her out of bed in the morning and what carried her through the day. She slept through the night because of this, and for that same reason, she was eager to raise her child in the world she lived in. 

Just about everything about the pregnancy was stunning, jaw dropping even, and everyone in Lakeland could testify to this. The medical mystery was certainly something remarkable, but perhaps what was even stranger was the fact that while Carol was carrying a child, she hadn't had sex in months.


	5. Claire Jones: The First of Her Kind

Despite all of the initial baby madness, the Walkers soon assumed the roles of their daily lives. Carol taught at the school, dealing with second graders day in and day out. John, having easily assessed the majority of this year's supply of eleven year olds, hit his first roadblock. The obstacle was a child by the name of Claire Jones. 

Claire was the first of her kind. However, after that twenty-third year as the Examiner, more and more Claire's turned up in the Examination sessions. 

Claire was a child showing "extreme behavioral problems in addition to emotional irregularities." Along with each child came a report from their schoolteacher. How ironic that teachers played a heavy hand in elimination through the Year Eleven Assessments. All that empathy put to such a waste.  The kids that they were nurturing would be pointed towards elimination based on that report. Of course, the teachers had no idea. To them, it was all routine; standard assessments to find skill sets and nothing more. 

Claire's report was a lengthy one. A portion read "Claire is rude and disruptive, paying little attention to anything. She isn't afraid to put herself first; she's been known to be manipulative. She easily uses other children to get what she wants. I've caught her trying to manipulate me on multiple occasions. She is mentally intimidating as well as physically aggressive. She is guilty of rough play at recess towards other girls. Not only does she hit them, but she shows no remorse when being punished, unlike other children. She does not play well with any of the students and is inconsiderate of others' feelings. At this age she should not be acting this way, especially without thought or guilt. She shows extreme obedience issues as well as significant emotional abnormalities. Please assess her carefully; she is  _not_ the average eleven year old girl." She'd underlined the word 'not' exactly four times. 

In the overstuffed chair before John sat not the menace that had been described, but a doll. Not in the sense that she was sweet, but in the way that she seemed absent. John couldn't describe it, the lack of depth in this child. She hardly showed a personality and only spoke when John prompted her to do so. Even then, she spoke in such hushed tones that John would have to have her repeat it several times until her muttered responses were audible. The first day of a session was usually an eventful one; John would jot down up to a page of information on the child. But with Claire, the only thing he'd written was: there is a vacancy in her eyes. 

Her assessment proceeded at the rate of molasses. At the midway point, he had hardly gotten any farther than the first day. Never had he been so stumped, so defeated. And by who? A soft spoken little girl, one with wide eyes and fumbling hands. This supposed terror, demon among men, is nothing but a child, and a lackluster one at that. 

Nonetheless, she put John's profession at a crossroads, and unintentionally so. He brought his short analyses of Claire home for an entire week, working day in and day out for an answer. A solution came when he wasn't looking. 

He requested a naturalistic observation of Claire. In rare cases when a child could not be properly assessed, the Examiner could apply for a naturalistic observation. That is just what John did, asking for permission to oversee Claire at recess. What started as a small observation turned into a groundbreaking discovery. 

Claire would not hit, manipulate, or even approach or speak to any males. Only females, including her teacher, were subject to her abuse. Her mistreatment was of malicious intent, John decided. She showed no signs of empathy; there was no evidence she cared for anyone but herself. When reprimanded by her teacher, she gave no visible or verbal signs of guilt and no signs of conscience. Not only was she doing wrong, but either she couldn't realize it or didn't care. Either way, that was a defining straw for Mr. Walker. At the age of eleven, Claire was showing telltale signs of a sociopath. 

He submitted her immediately for elimination. Before her date was to be set, John set her aside, asking, "Why do you behave around boys?"

The only answer she provided was an empty stare warranting no understanding. John gave up, deciding he didn't need to know the reasoning of her cruelty, but just the presence of it, which was enough to condemn her. Not only did John refer her to elimination, but he had her registered for the earliest date available. That happened to be that Tuesday, a day where the clouds were heavy and the air just as thick. It was on that day that Claire Jones was removed from her family unit and transferred to the elimination center. There, she was given a lethal injection. The fluid ripped through her veins like barbed wire, destroying everything it reached until finally, she was dead. Her heart faltered before stopping, her chest settled, her skin grew cold and faded to an ashy white, and soon enough, Rigor mortis took its course. 

The body was transported to the processing room, where official records were taken before being hidden in their entirety. They assured that she was dead, confirmed her identity and condition, and assigned her a disposal site. 

Lakeland had four unique disposal sites, one being mass burial a short mile from town. Another was more gruesome, a process in which the body was stripped of teeth and fingernails before being fed to livestock. The body could also be burned, although this method was rarely used due to the attention it could raise. Finally, there was the most popular method, which was to wrap the body in iron chains and pitch it into the lake. After all, why not utilize Lakeland's most prosperous resource? It was no longer a means for drinking water; it hadn't been since the spread of the Suffering. Townspeople hardly knew what a lake was, let alone that there was one a mere few miles off from their homes. They had no idea the lake existed; no one did. Except for those involved in the disposal of bodies, that was. The lake, what used to be the center of life for the village, was transformed into a watery cemetery, one with no tombstones, no records, and most importantly, no visitors. 


	6. Sympathy

            Claire Jones, the first of her kind, was dead at the bottom of a lake. It was easy for John to move on at this point; through all his years serving as the Examiner, accepting the death of these children only got easier. Not to mention, something about being one of the few people in Lakeland to know of these children’s passing made him feel very entitled. All his life he’s been made to feel insignificant, and for once he got to feel important. And it was a rush. That was really what kept him returning to the Examiner’s chair day in and day out; not the assurance that he was the man for the job, or for the nobility of sparing others from the wearisome task. No, he merely did it for the gratification it gave him. He was nurturing a festering God complex. He controlled the lives of virtually every kid in Lakeland, a power that didn’t go to his head, but just swelled him with resolve. Pointing these children to their deaths was what actually let him sleep at night. He knew that he was making a difference, and whether or not that was a good difference he didn’t care to think about. All he knew was that this was the one way he could matter, and he held onto that for as long as he could.

            Claire’s family reacted rather indifferently to their daughter’s absence. Whenever a person was eliminated, relatives would be informed that they were registered in a different area for their skills. These families were told in an informal way that they wouldn’t be seeing their son or daughter. It was often hard to register, the thought of losing what they’d brought into the world. The idea that they would no longer comb their hair back or touch the face of the person they’d loved more than anything was debilitating, crippling almost. Mothers often fell into fits of hysteria as their husband collapsed with grief. The pain was excruciating, a stabbing ache that would come in waves. Resonating in your chest, it would tear at the walls of skin. But as everything else seemed to, it would fade. First, the pain lessened. Breathing would ease and clarity would come to you. Not from reasoning, but from the distance that time puts between human relationships. Those eyes that Claire shared with her mother, they would be gone from her father’s memory soon enough. So would her smile, the gentle lilt of her walk, and the way she would laugh when something was so funny she couldn’t breathe. Claire would never feel it again, and her family wouldn’t remember it. So, these qualities died with her, eventually.

            But at the Jones’ residence, no such dramatic displays of loss took place. Her father had merely stood there dumbly, mouth hanging open, not in shock. He just breathed from his mouth, whether that was a conscious trait or not was beyond John. He’d gripped the doorknob tightly before closing the door, not having said a word or even blinked hardly.

            All of those children were never missed as intensely as they were for those first few months. However, in Claire’s case, John caught the haunting impression that she was never missed at all.

            John carried on with his examinations nonetheless. Even he dismissed fleeting thoughts of Claire much quicker than he would have some two weeks ago. Perhaps considering the circumstances of her life and death was all part of the process, a step that was being skipped over by the intrusion of life.

            Claire Jones’ had a heart that didn’t beat and lungs that couldn’t fill. So it was. John used to mourn those children to some extent, but that was rarely the case these days. He’d become desensitized to the shortened lives of these kids. These individuals and their stories all blended together over the 20 something years. It wasn’t long before he failed to differentiate details from case to case.

            Besides, that wasn’t his job. Initially, there were some careful thoughts reserved for those souls that he’d executed. While there was never guilt, there was still these intervals of consideration. But those had passed now as well, leaving John without any concept of sympathy. John’s main concerns soon floated back to the baby blossoming in his wife’s stomach.

            She was just starting to show the slightest bit. The presence of the baby, the roundness of her stomach, brought a certain reality to the situation. Of course they’d known she was pregnant, but it hadn’t felt entirely real until that little bump protruded from her waist. The two began to take the whole thing very seriously. They applied for both parenting classes as well as a list of baby names at the town’s center and registered Carol for both a healthier diet as well as prenatal vitamins. They didn’t want to know the sex, that would be a surprise, they decided. But both of them shared a gut feeling that this one would be a boy.

            For this reason, they only peeked at the designated girls’ section of the naming list. Only with the boys’ names did they delve deeper, highlighting certain ones as well as folding over the corners of particularly enticing pages. The main names they were considering were Adam, Jeremy, and Gabriel. John had secretly been thinking of Ezra as well, but he had yet to mention it to his wife.

            John really had taken a liking to that boy. He saw him on his trip home nearly every day, stopping to visit more times than not. Ezra rarely had much to say; he wasn’t much of a talker. It was not the amount of words he used but the weight of them that drove these conversations forward.

            However little he spoke, Ezra was particularly talkative one Thursday afternoon. He had rushed to the edge of his yard, pumping his wheels forward in long strokes. “Mr. Walker!”

            “Ezra, nice to see you,” John greeted.

            “Nice to see you, too,” Ezra panted.

            John frowned. “Short of breath?”

            Ezra nodded. “For good reason, though. I found something.”

            “What might that be?” John asked, his stomach clenching. Although the lake was quite a way off the town, it was closest to the Laborers’ block. Such a long trip might explain why Ezra was so breathless.

            “Come on, I’ll show you,” Ezra ordered, turning the other way.

            John walked at the child’s side, keeping his pace moderate to accommodate Ezra’s heavy breathing. Ezra stopped at the foot of his back porch, stooping over to pick up a leather bound book. “It’s heavy,” Ezra mumbled.

            “Ezra, why the fuss over a simple book?” John questioned. “It’s just a brown book. I see nothing remarkable about it.”

            Ezra merely grinned, waving the book slightly in his hand. “This is no ordinary book. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Flipping it over to its front, John read the text stamped across the cover, _Holy Bible._

John’s eyes widened as he reached for the book, grasping it tightly. Eyes darting side to side, he lowered his voice, warning, “Ezra, this is not something you are supposed to have.”

            Ezra frowned, retorting, “I know. Why do you think I hid it out here?’

            “Where did you get this?” John demanded.

            “From under the porch,” Ezra answered.

            John bobbed his head rapidly, mumbling quietly, “I want you to take this thing and put it back where you got it, understand?” When Ezra didn’t reply, John repeated, “ _Understand_?”

            “Yes, sir,” Ezra muttered, pulling the book from John’s grasp. He tucked it under his arm, promising, “I’ll put it back.”

            “Good,” John replied. “And don’t you show that to anyone, alright? Get rid of it as soon as you can.”

            Ezra nodded solemnly, hanging his head.

            Just as John turned, he heard over his shoulder, “Mr. Walker!”

            John faced Ezra once more. “Yes?”

            “Did you know Claire Jones?” Ezra asked this evenly, jaw tight. He already knew the answer.

            John shook his head. “Can’t say I recognize the name, Ezra.” John sauntered off, whistling slightly to try to break some of the tension. Later he’d start to question Ezra’s relationship to Claire, but at the moment, the discovery of the Bible was fresh in his mind. The white hot fear that had coursed through him was still pricking at the back of his neck. His palms were sweaty and his knees weak still. Knowing Ezra, the boy would follow John’s instruction and return the Bible where he’d gotten it from. John only hoped he’d do it carefully enough. He’d spared Ezra the gruesome details both for confidentiality reasons and for the paternal love he felt for the child. No love that he felt for him would be able to soften the reality of what would happen if Ezra were to be found by city officials with that Bible. A swift elimination was enough to make even a man of steel reduce to iron filaments. 


	7. Human

It was a while before John met another Claire Jones, that was, a sweetheart in the seat but a demon in the streets. That girl was easily the most manipulative person John had ever met. Not only had he seen her warp and twist the minds of fellow classmates, but he’d fallen victim to it himself. John Walker, an Examiner going on his twenty-third year, swindled by a soft spoken eleven-year-old girl. Full of spite, he was almost glad that they’d so quickly carried through with an elimination. While it was certainly part of it, the way that she’d mangled his thinking was not the only reason he’d been so relieved to see her go. Working for as long as he did as the Examiner, not only did he lose sympathy for the children slain by his hand, but he gained understanding for those who promoted the disposal of these problematic citizens. Yes, he believed that Claire’s abnormal behavior was justification for her death. What was unclear was the reason he went about this thinking. Did he decide this unconsciously in an eye for an eye, primal way of thinking? Or was it just easier to give reasons as to why these kids deserved to be put to death? Sleeping at night with blood on your hands was a lot easier when the stains were from a lion, not a lamb.  
The next batch of kids he’d examined had been an easy handful. Fair grades in most cases, acceptable social skills, and no signs of emotional or behavioral irregularities. That was exactly what John was looking for. If the student just so happened to be the slightest bit charming, that was just a bonus.  
John found himself pondering the day of Ezra’s assessment. He’d made such a good impression on John, surely he could do the same with any other Examiner that he may encounter. Of course, at that time John was almost positive that he would be the one to administer Ezra’s assessment. That was, unless some sort of unforeseen tragedy were to befall John.  
That wasn’t the main thought that crossed John’s mind, no, the primary question was of what skillset Ezra would be labeled as. He would never be a laborer like his relatives before him; not with the paralysis that had struck him as an infant. No, he would likely have to be a pencil pusher, in some sort of executive position. Whether or not that was the life for him, John didn’t know. He could only hope, because he knew that when the time came, like it or not, Ezra wouldn’t have a choice.  
Twenty-three years ago, John was put in that same positon. Going into his position as the Examiner, he had been wary and tentative. Few notes were taken, and when they were, they were never too specific. He didn’t reach many conclusions; he couldn’t bear the thought of making a false assumption that would lead to a child’s death. That was, until he had a visit from the previous Examiner.  
Prior to John’s hiring, the Examiner was a man named Leonard Waters. A man of tall stature and sharp words, he’d somehow caught wind of John’s troubles in his newly affirmed role as the Examiner. Waters had only served for six months, resigning after what seemed like an insufferable few months of giving children the thumbs up or thumbs down, in doing so, granting either the keys to the kingdom or the hatchway down to hell. He’d cracked. He hadn’t gone totally off the rocker; he still had the common sense to quit. However, he was far gone, to the point that his own wife was afraid of him.  
Regaining composure as John was getting primped to take the open spot, it wasn’t long before he was more or less the same man that he was before sitting in the Examiner’s chair. To say that he was ever the same would be an outright lie. No one served as the Examiner and fully recovered. The damage sustained to the soul could only be mitigated, but never solved. It was a wound that festered for a while before scabbing over, never fully healing. You could spend the rest of your life healing, and it’d never be enough. No matter what you did or said to distract yourself, at the end of the day, you were a murderer and nothing more. But you never knew this when you started. The fact that you would hear the wispy voices of long deceased children at odd hours of the night wasn’t exactly in the job description. Nor was the idea that you would forever be disgusted, not only with yourself, but with everyone that had played their hand in the slaughtering of innocent children.  
Waters was a man that could give John the reality check he desperately needed. He’d marched himself up to that Examiner’s office, sitting for the first time not in the burgundy Examiner’s chair, but that of the assessed.  
Sweating against the leather, he told John exactly what he’d intended to. “You’ll never live it down, John.”  
John had peered at him quizzically. This was when he was young, not full of light, but certainly not as hardened as he’d grown over the years. “Live down what?”  
Waters had leaned in. “The first time you kill a child.”  
John had scoffed. “It’s not me that’s doing the killing.”  
“Is it not?” Waters challenged. “Is it not you that has the sole power to let that child live or die?” Leaning closer, he lowered his voice, “Is it not you that pushes God to the side saying, ‘Let me take it from here?’”  
Frowning, John had remarked, “I don’t want to make a rash decision.”  
“Then you signed up for the wrong job, pal,” Waters spoke.  
“What, am I just supposed to jump to conclusions about these children?” John demanded. “Without circumstantial evidence, it’s irrational!”  
“Exactly,” Waters agreed. “It is irrational, and that’s why it’s so damn human.” He stood, telling, “That’s the only thing human about this job.” He’d started toward the door, leaving John with the statement, “You’re going to have to kill one, you know. After that, it’s pretty smooth sailing. That is, until you stop. But it’s that first child that’ll be the one that keeps you up at night. I mean, they will all be lingering around at ungodly hours, but that first one, that will be the one you feel worst about. A lack of experience isn’t to blame, but rather a lack of thought. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve done more.” He paused, adding, “But most of all, you’ll wonder why you let yourself carry through with it.”  
After the monologue, John had hardly imagined he would last a year as the Examiner, let alone twenty-three. Yet, there he was, whistling as he made decisions he wouldn’t have been able to stomach years ago. He thought about what old Leonard Waters had said, about how that first elimination was a major obstacle, and then the waters leveled, the storms ceased. He’d mentioned that it was all fine and dandy until you stopped. Having seen the state of Waters, John feared nothing more than the day that he would have to resign from his position. He would cling onto the wearisome task as the Examiner as long as he could, not to prolong pleasure, but to delay heartache.


	8. The Promise

            After weeks of irregularities, glitches in the matrix, John felt that he was finally settling back into a pattern with life. Not one child had been submitted for Elimination after months of assessments. Docile as they were plain, these kids passed right on through, being granted the opportunity to live past their eleventh birthday.

            As smooth as work was going, Carol’s pregnancy fared even better. She was rounding up nicely at five months, her curves widening to accommodate her growing waistline. The baby was doing just as well; it had started kicking. Those pulsing kicks, those had first come at night while Carol lie in bed. Gripping John’s hand, she’d wrap a hand over her stomach, smiling as she shared, “He’s kicking.” In the darkness of the room, her eyes practically illuminated the air between the two. Her closed smile would break into a full-fledged grin, teeth and all, as she whispered excitedly, “He’s really here, John. He’s really with us.” Grasping her husband’s hand, she’d place his against the wall of her womb, against that throbbing punch that was the fetus’s leg. All but crying with joy, she’d added, “He’s right here.”

            A faint curl of the lip played on John’s face as the memory returned to him. At that point, the baby was referred to solely by masculine pronouns. Although no official tests had claimed so, there was still that persistent feeling that a boy was what was stirring up inside of Carol. They continued to search through the pages and pages of boys’ names, determined on finding the right one. After all, this could very well be the only child they’d ever bring into the world. Couples with multiple children get a unique opportunity with the first born. That is, as many mistakes with that child’s upbringing as needed may be made, as long as the ones pumped out after turned out half-fine. It was utilitarianism at its finest, the prosperity of the many attributed to the suffering of the few. But with a single child, no such policies existed. You had one chance to raise something that would benefit the world more than it hurt it, and it wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

            Whoever had brought up Ezra certainly did something out of the ordinary. John learned this all too simultaneously soon and late. Of course, he’d always had the sense that Ezra wasn’t a typical boy, anyone with a brain could detect this.

            But lately, even old Ezra failed to ever catch John off guard. It wasn’t that John was bored of him, but Ezra’s typical antics had just become, well, _typical._ Months’ and months’ worth of spectacular happenings faded that initial shock factor that John once felt. In fact, the only time Ezra really floored John was at the mention of an old flame.

            “Claire’s dead, isn’t she?” Ezra’s tone was inquisitive, but his expression unreadable.

            John chose his words carefully; he’d grown accustomed to stepping around eggshells, and not just with Ezra. “She’s just been Submitted, that’s all.”

            Ezra shook his head vigorously. “ _No_ ,” he insisted.

            “Would I lie to you?” John asked. The words were foreign in his mouth. He was not only giving Ezra the guilt trip, but on grounds that were not true. Almost every person in John’s life he’d uttered a lie to.

            “She’s dead, John,” Ezra hissed. Biting his lip, he’d lowered his voice, adding, “I heard her.”

            John was appalled, more so by Ezra’s claim than by the use of his first name. “What do you mean you heard her?”

            Ezra hesitated. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

            John dropped one knee, stooping to Ezra’s eye level. “You can trust me, Ezra. I can’t promise a lot of things, but that I can.”

            Ezra closed his eyes, speaking softly, “I can’t tell you.” Grasping John’s hand with his own tiny clammy ones, his brow tightened as he added, “I’ll just have to show you.”

            There they were, the epitome of everything John failed to understand in the world he lived in. Claire Jones’ pale blue eyes. They bore through him in a way that nothing else could, ripping apart and dissecting his mistakes, all that he’s done, and all that he’s failed to do. Was there something more than what he’d anticipated? Had he jumped the gun in sending Claire to death, totally overlooking some major component of her case?

            John attempted to break away, but Ezra’s grip tightened tenfold. Forced to face the skeleton in his closet, John faced Claire.

            Claire spoke in a rasping voice. “It hurts,” she whined, her voice strung with pain. She rolled up her sleeve, revealing the bruised injection site. The point where the needle that had ended her was an angry purplish hue. Rubbing at the spot, she cried, “They hurt me, Ezra. Hurt me real bad.”

            Still trying to recoil, John struggled against Ezra. God, was that boy strong.

            Claire started to sob, continuing, “They hurt me! Worse than he ever could!”

            A kneading ache started to spread through John as he resisted. Every time his eyes closed, the horrors of what he was seeing burned through them, still haunting him.

            Sobbing intensifying, Claire fell to her knees, clutching her chest. She cried out for a moment until she finally keeled over, dead. Radiant skin turned ashy and her water pool eyes faded to an iced over lake.

            Just as soon as it had started, it ended. Ezra shoved John away, seeming to be under a great amount of physical pain himself. Straining, he’d questioned, “Who did that to her?”

            Bewildered, John stammered, “E-Ezra, where’d you learn to do that?”

            “It came to me,” Ezra replied slowly. Ezra was always deliberate in his wording, not to avoid offending others, but rather to project exactly what he intended. He was different from John in many ways, and this was one of them. “Just like the rest.”

            So much thoughtful vocabulary, yet Ezra was vague as ever. “What do you mean, the rest?”

            Ezra paused, then mumbled, “Tricks.”

            Recalling the afternoon that they’d first met, John asked, “These are those tricks you first told me about?”

            Ezra nodded solemnly. “I’m getting more and more of them.”

            John wasn’t sure what to do or say. In all his years of studying how to deal with children, he’d never come across a section on paranormal powers. He didn’t know whether to encourage them, stifle them, or dismiss them altogether. After a few moments of internal conflict, he finally decided to take the offensive. “Ezra, you listen to me and you listen close. I don’t want to hear about any more of these tricks, and no one else better either.”

            “But John,” Ezra protested.

            “No buts,” John scolded. “I don’t ever want you to try any of this stuff again, you hear me?” Ezra sat sulking. John raised his voice, “ _Understand?_ ”

            Ezra nodded. “Yes, John.”

            John stood, straightening his tie and he told hotly, “That’s Mr. Walker to you.”

            Racing home, John’s thoughts moved faster than his legs ever could. Had he been too harsh? Surely, it wasn’t Ezra’s fault he possessed these gifts. John wouldn’t call them that though, he would call them more of a curse than anything. John’s reaction hadn’t been the most appropriate, but he could only imagine other officials’. Knowing that Ezra would be all but burned at the stake, John took an oath, a promise to remain the Examiner until Ezra passed his Assessment. Ezra would pass, John would see to it. To kill a child like Ezra would be to destroy God’s work himself. Where the line was between Ezra and the likes of Claire Jones, John didn’t know. All he knew was that he was going to stick around as Examiner until Ezra passed; he’d resign right after. John was never a man of his word, and this was yet another promise that wouldn’t be fulfilled.


	9. It Pours

            After that particular encounter with Ezra, a distance grew between him and John. John was well acquainted to emotional detachment, but he had never experienced one quite so gaping. He normally is active in widening these sort of expanses, turning what started as a mere crack into a great, seeping canyon. This method, this exacerbating of the mild, is what John did best. Give him a scratch, he’ll make it a wound. Throw a slight breeze his way and he’ll start a hurricane.

            He called it the Pour Tactic. The name originated from the saying “When it rains, it pours.” People like to find these types of trends meaningless, but if you knew John, he was usually the reason behind patterns.

            That was the story of how he deliberately and skillfully avoided personal relationships. It served him well over his life; forty-one years he’s been on this earth and he only has one bond to show for it. Even then, it’s his wife. It’s not that she’d fallen from the margin and into his arms or anything sweet like that. She wasn’t even a glitch, not an inconsistency in the universe. While being a fluke may seem insulting, at least being a walking, talking, breathing mistake has novel value. Alas, she wasn’t even that. She was nothing but a basic milestone. She couldn’t hold any pride to this sentiment; she wasn’t a milestone in the sense of being the dawn of something great, but she was in the way that she was an inevitability. She was bound to happen from the start; John knew that he’d be unable to fly under the arranged marriage radar. Yes, she was as certain as death. These things that we expect are not the things that we anticipate.

            Having her around proved to be beneficial, for the most part. Now John had the privilege of parenthood, something he’d always yearned for, but simultaneously assumed out of reach. She was far along at this time, rounding up to that seventh month. While that baby was rapidly developing inside her womb, nothing on the outside world seemed too different than the previous months of pregnancy had. Well, that’s not entirely true. She did complain about somatic troubles on a more regular basis, and doctor’s visits turned less into checkups and more into lectures. “Eat this, don’t eat that. Do this, don’t do that. Avoid this, include as much of this as you can.” The list went on and on. The heavy guidance that the couple received made everyone wonder what previous generations had done, before the time of pre-natal vitamins and Caesarean sections.

            For some time, John had the wife and the baby and the job and that was enough. The focus on these took away from his curiosity of Ezra’s powers. He had maintained his discouraging policy towards them, but temptation remained a major factor on his walks home. Whenever he passed by the Laborers’ block, Ezra’s deteriorated house stared him down, its shadow looming broadly over the pavement.

            While Ezra wasn’t around as he had been, his house served as a replacement in the sense that it got John thinking, demanding answers about these gifts from the God who’d given them. Was that projection of the dead the full extent of his ability? Or was Ezra back? Most importantly, if he had been withholding effort, then just what would he do if he unleashed this potential?

            Still, John did all he could to block this out. In a place like Lakeland, curiosity not only killed the cat; but it poisoned the litter. For John to go after this sort of trouble would surely be an invitation for the disastrous. It wouldn’t end with one death; John was sure of that.

            Everything going on within John’s budding family was an effective distraction. After all, how could he abandon his kin for the search of the unknown? Family is certain; family is wholesome. Whatever Ezra had did not fall with these things, as far as John knew.

            Perhaps Ezra’s abilities were not the will of God. This not only leads to belief that they were against God’s intention, but it also supported the idea that these powers were in the interest of something else, something much darker.

            Something was at work inside of Ezra, and John had automatically assumed it good. But who could say? It’s not like John had a whole lot of other experience to draw from; Ezra was the first warlock John had ever met in the flesh.

            This very realistic possibility was the most petrifying thing for John. It scared him; scared the hell out of him. The old questions of the degree of Ezra’s powers resurfaced, only this time from the standpoint of evil. If evil were truly at hand, surely John would need to put a stop to it, or investigate it at the very least. After all, he was bringing a child into this world, and a part of his paternal duty was to do all he could to make Lakeland safe.

            Of course, that was an incredible feat, especially with someone like Ezra on the loose. John could only give so much, so promises were calculated and scarce.

            Unlikelihood had always been a poor excuse to give up on trying. After all, John had a baby coming. He had to do these thing not out of his own selfish intentions, but for the wellbeing of his unborn child. At least, that was what he told himself as he marched up to Ezra’s house one afternoon.

            While the mere thought of Ezra’s talents struck terror into John’s very heart, there was something worse he could imagine, a nearly certain outcome. That would be Ezra failing his Year Eleven Assessment if the administrators caught wind of these so-called gifts. To stay as an Examiner wasn’t good enough; to fully ensure the boy’s safety, John had to find the root of the problem. In doing so, he couldn’t raise public attention, either. No, he just had to understand. That was all he needed, some patience and empathy.

            Being overly rational, John had still taken on an offensive mentality against Ezra, yes, nine-year-old, wheelchair-bound Ezra. It’s also important to consider the fact that John had been close with Ezra for some seven months now. If John had seen Ezra as such a threat, he could only imagine how other officials would see him. They wouldn’t see him as a slight threat, they’d see him as a supernatural terrorist, one that would have to be stopped by whatever means necessary. John knew how it would end, and it would not end well. So he picked the topic back up, not for his own curiosity, and not even for the sorry excuse of his family’s sake, but for the protection of Ezra, who, for all John knew, could really just be a prepubescent boy with a remarkable gift.


	10. New Perspective

            The day that John returned to Ezra’s home was a clouded afternoon. The skies were still and tinted grey; even the grass appeared duller than ever. The blades themselves almost sulked, flapping wildly in the slightest breeze. It’s as if God had given the sun a rest, making the day of John’s arrival as gloomy as possible.

            Having never lived on the Laborer block, John had grown quite attached to the area over the span of his friendship with Ezra. What he used to view as the slums were now a kingdom, built upon honor, but also the blood of the killed children who once roamed its streets.

            The house itself transformed from a hovel to a palace in a matter of months. Its floorboards were rotted and its siding stained and peeling away, but John now saw a very distinct charm to it all. The faded oak door, painted what John used to call a garish shade of red, now seemed to hold eloquence. Perhaps his attitude changed not out of familiarity, but of longing. It always seemed that he saw the beauty in things only once they were out of reach. For whatever reason, his perspective had changed, and the fact that it was an unconscious shift was the wonder of it all.

            Noticing that Ezra wasn’t outside, Josh marched himself right up the sodden stairs, saturated with years of rain and snow. They didn’t creak; despite their age, but to put one’s weight on it was similar to strolling along top of a sponge, an idea that gives such a specific image that everyone knows the feeling without having actually experienced the sensation.

            Before knocking, a brief thought crossed John’s mind about what he was going to say if one of Ezra’s parents answered the door as opposed to the boy himself. How could he tell them that their son was in potential danger, that John’s type of people were the ones posing a threat? He just couldn’t, and he wouldn’t have to because Ezra’s laborer parents weren’t due home for another two hours. This came as a relief to John; his own blood curled at the thought of it all. To tell a couple of parents that their son could likely die before puberty would be torture for any party involved.

            Knocking thrice, John waited for that heavy rose door to shuffle forward against the raised wood of the porch, inching along as it scraped against the irritable surface.

            The door did not do that; it opened towards the inside of the house. Ezra pushed the door past himself, brushing the frame of his chair. “Mr. Walker.”

            John knew this wouldn’t be easy. “You can call me John.”

            “I don’t know, _can_ I?” Ezra challenged. He glared at John, his normally pale eyes dark with anger.

            “Ezra, I’m sorry.” John stared into those eyes, which only seemed to be growing more and more intense. “I was taken aback. I don’t know what to tell you I just-”

            “Can I trust you?” Ezra demanded.

            John stood, shocked, not only at being so abruptly cut off, but with the force of the question itself and the way Ezra had uttered it. “Ezra…”

            “Can I?” Ezra reiterated. “I need to know that I can trust you.” John opened his mouth to speak, and again Ezra cut him off. “Don’t apologize more, don’t weigh your options. Just answer the damn question.”

            John exhaled slowly, nodding profusely. “Yes, yes you can trust me.”

            “Come inside,” Ezra ordered, backing up to allow room for John to pass through.

            John entered the home, a faint odor wafting into his nostrils. The smell itself was absolutely revolting, unbearable, almost, but it was just vague enough so that John could stomach it. “What is that smell?”

            “Tricks,” Ezra insisted. “I’ve been practicing tricks.”

            John told lowly, “Ezra, you have got to stop with these tricks. I don’t think stinking up a house will prove to your benefit, anyways.”

            “That wasn’t the trick!” Ezra replied. He follows John, who has begun to investigate the source of the smell. He trails behind into the kitchen, adding, “I think these tricks can be used for good, John.”

            John stopped, turning to face Ezra. “What good can communicating with the dead possibly do, Ezra? Dead people pass for a reason. To disrupt that is to violate God’s will.”  

            “If someone is killed by another person, is that God’s will?” Ezra countered. In response to John’s shocked expression, Ezra added, “Claire was murdered; an eleven-year-old girl doesn’t drop dead like that.”

            John, returning to trying to pinpoint the odor, admonished, “You should stay out of things like these. You’re just too young.” He must have been getting closer; what was once a weak scent was now a strong fume.

            Ezra wheeled around John, planting his chair in front of the man and blocking his path. “All my life I have been told that I can’t do things. Right from my birth, I wasn’t supposed to live. But here I am, been going strong for a good nine years. Don’t tell me what I’m not capable of John, because I’m so much more than anyone would guess.”

            John quieted, not wanting to argue any longer. He changed the subject, asking again, “What is that smell?” Giving another whiff, he remarks, “It’s almost rotten.”

            Ezra grimaced, reminding, “You said I can trust you.”

            John nodded, following Ezra further down the hall. Grasping a closet doorknob, Ezra mumbled, “I hope you have a strong stomach.” With that, he opened the door, revealing the mutilated corpse of a dog, it’s mouth wide and blood drying to shades of brown in the carpet.

            John gags, slamming the door shut with his foot. “Ezra, what the hell was that all about?”

            “I found it,” Ezra answered plainly.

            “And took it _home_?” John questioned incredulously.

            Ezra sighed, “It’s evidence, John. If I didn’t take it, he would have gotten rid of it himself.”

            John’s feeling of sickness subsided, enough for him to calmly inquire, “Who’s he?”

            Voice all but a whisper, Ezra replied, “Mr. Jones.”

            John gave him a quizzical look, prompting Ezra to proceed, “I have very good reason to believe he’s hurting the girls.”

            “Who, Elizabeth and Samantha?” Elizabeth and Samantha were the young sisters of Claire Jones. The Jones family eldest daughter was Claire, but along with her were the blonde-headed twins. “That’s a serious accusation to make, Ezra.”

            “This is serious,” Ezra urged, gesturing back at the closet holding the dog’s corpse.

            “What does a dead dog have to do with the Jones family?”

            “I found it in their back yard,” Ezra answered.

            John paused, then reasoning, “It could have been a coincidence.”

            Ezra shook his head, arguing, “That dog died in a terrible way, John.”

            “Perhaps in an attack by another animal?” John suggested.

            “It has distinct carving on the roof of its mouth,” Ezra responded. “What kind of predator takes the time to make an inscription?”

            John shook his head vehemently, insisting, “No, no, Ezra.”

            Ezra slammed a hand on the arm of his chair with frustration, snapping, “Those girls could be in danger! And… you’re the Examiner! You’re with kids all the time, you get us better than anyone else does.” Ezra paused, letting out a heavy exhale before pleading, “Wouldn’t you do anything to help them? Could you please just look into it?”

            It was then that John saw a new perspective, a different kind of light that these children saw him in. While the popular majority were petrified of his mere presence, perhaps something lay beneath that, a sort of trust that he understood. Ezra held John in the respects of a hero, a man who was entirely invested in the interest of each child. In this ray of faith, John stood dirty and tainted; his stained red hands pinned behind his back. The guilt was overwhelming; his head became heavy and his chest caved in under the pressure. He considered Ezra for what he was, a child. Not a friend, not a potential Examinee, not a threat. Just a boy, a boy with a firm belief in John, for whatever reason. John then made a promise, a careful one at that. He told, “I’ll see what I can do.”


	11. The Parasite

John knew that no good could have come of this. When things were destined to have a sour outcome, he could sense it. It manifested itself in somatic irregularities, stomach rumbles and the like. He used to disregard these telltale signs, and each time he did, without fail, the scenario all but blew up in his face. Claire Jones, whose spirit was undoubtedly still communicating with a willing Ezra, was a lovely example of a seemingly constrained situation gone completely wrong. While John had sent plenty of children to their deaths without a blink of the eye, they usually don’t roam the town on a different plane.

            He had gotten somewhat accustomed to having faith in his instincts. However, just because he knew they were true doesn’t mean he ever followed them. These gut feelings had never let him down, but that’s because he’s never given them the opportunity.

            The issue was obvious and the subject matter heavy. Child abuse was almost an unspeakable crime, and John would have to be very careful in facing the problem head on. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was trying to accomplish, marching himself up to the door of the Jones’ house all on his own. Perhaps he just wanted to talk to the guy. Maybe he was trying to prove Ezra wrong. But he knew that deep down, the one thing drawing him to that home, throbbing and zipping like a moth attracted to trouble, was the very apparent possibility that those young girls were in danger. To turn back would be an act of parental treason.

            Although John had yet to introduce his child to the world, he felt a parental aura swelling inside of him. Though he’d always enjoyed kids, he found that he was only then beginning to truly understand them.

            Knowing this, he was certain that Ezra was scared for those girls, scared that their days might be numbered. Having seen the dog, John knew that Ezra’s fear was founded, that there was a possibility the corpse was no coincidence. That was all the more reason to make a home visit.

            Giving a few knocks on the door, John planted himself at the forefront of the Jones’ porch. It was nothing like Ezra’s, a deteriorating pile of lumber. No, this porch was more similar to John’s; sturdy and clean with a finish so fresh it stained the soles of your shoes. Like John, Mr. Jones held the rank of a Scholar, while his wife was a merchant. They lived well.

            John stood there for what seemed like a century, sweating under the August heat and struggling to ignore the emptied dog house in the back left corner of the yard. He did his best not to read the faded name scrawled over the top, and took specific caution not to read into the abandoned pull rope lying in the grass. Most of all, he tried to not even _consider_ the irregular, almost splattered clump of browning grass. Grass did not die at that time of year, but dogs sure could have.

            Mr. Jones answered himself, per usual. In fact, it seemed that Mrs. Jones was never around, with the exception of her daily work. Even when given the task of reporting their daughter’s absence, John had to call upon Mr. Jones (who was reluctant, to say the least) to include his wife in the conversation.

            All the same, John asked Mr. Jones to fetch his wife, only after exchanging pleasantries of course.  Instead of beckoning for her in the most subtly unwilling of ways, Mr. Jones informed, “I’m afraid she’s not well, Mr. Walker. You’ll have to excuse us, but she’s in no condition for visitors. She’d be happy to talk with you at a better time.”

            Initially ready to give in, John had his escape plan already mapped out. Then, out of seemingly nowhere, an idea strikes itself inside of his mind like a match against some brick, and he lies, “Allow me to be straightforward with you, Mr. Jones. I saw something special in your daughter, Claire. She was… is…. An extraordinary little girl, a true testament to how she was raised. I believe that whatever kind of gift that was inside of her may be evident in her siblings as well, your younger daughters.” Each word was gritting and sharp, slicing his tongue to ribbons and scraping off the caps of his teeth. It was a believable enough lie; John has gotten very good at lying in his time as the Examiner, and usually, he felt nothing at the utter misguidance of his peers. But something about this time put a rock in his stomach, one that didn’t roll or stab, but just stew, strong and steady, in the bubbling acid. Maybe it was the fact that Claire had been just the opposite of what John had said; she was wrong and manipulative, grating and toxic. Or it could have been the fact that he’d attributed any success of hers to Mr. Jones’ parenting, a man who has been accused of beating his children. Or perhaps it was just how much the entire situation was a benign cyst, a mere annoyance, a constant headache. The task wasn’t too insurmountable, rather, it was tedious. Men like Mr. Jones are tedious.

            Mr. Jones was as self-absorbed as he was tedious, and John about gagged at the way the man seemed to swell with pride at the mention of his daughter. Part of John wished that Mr. Jones was not too bad of a man, that he was merely proud of his daughter and her supposed accomplishments. However, a rotten feeling deep inside of him let him know that it was likely Mr. Jones didn’t care about her, that he was only relishing in the part of the compliment addressed at him. It was sick to think about, but a lot of things in this world are sick. The thing about things being sick is that after so much exposure, you don’t become so revolted, rather, you learn to stomach them. You adapt to awful, you accept mediocre. “You want to talk to them?”

            John nodded, “If it pleases you.”

            Mr. Jones shrugged, one massive hand of his gripping the door knob to their home. John half expects the knob to shrivel beneath his touch, to disappear into a cloud of dust. Like King Midas, but destructive, Mr. Jones had been accused of having a harsh touch, in the case of the beloved family pet, a fatal touch. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” He stepped back into his home, allowing John to toe his way inside, the soles of his dress shoes firm over the carpet. “They’re upstairs, room on the left. Let me know if they give you any trouble.”

            John stifled a wince at the thought of what were to happen if those girls were to pose any trouble to him. He decided that no matter what happened in that room, he would not report any bad behavior in their interest. Even if they were hellions like their sister, they were still children, and it was up to John at this moment to protect them the best that he could. Managing a brief nod, he started up the stairs, none of which creak under his shifting weight.

            After having given a few knocks, John entered the room, greeting, “Hi, girls. I spoke with your dad. Could we have a little talk?”

            The girls, lively and beautiful, sat huddled on their bed, both clutching a stuffed animal. They looked at each other with their wide blue eyes and silently exchanged a nod, as if to say, “Yes, we trust him.”

            “Can I sit?” John asked. He figured he would try to get these girls to open up a little bit; at that time, they were sheltered, reserved, and seemingly frightened. By what, that was for John to figure out.

            Again nodding in unspoken unison, one of the twins nodded her blonde hair in the direction of the bed across from the one which they were perched upon. John eased onto the mattress, feeling it sag beneath him, causing a stuffed animal to tip over on its side. He righted the thing, a small, dirty mess of cloth that was probably a dog at one time. It’s been reduced to rags; why it still sits in such high regards on her bed was unknown to John. He knew that when he was growing up, only his favorite stuffed animals sat on his bed, although they were routinely alternated so as not to affect any of their respective self-esteems. When John woke in the morning to find them on the floor, he felt guilty, like a mother who had lost her child at the supermarket, an utter failure at what he valued most.

            “Can I ask you some questions about your family?” John asked.

            “What for?” one of them asked. It must’ve been Elizabeth; she had a small locket around her neck with an E engraved in the center. She shot a quizzical look at her sister Samantha, who held her gaze with me, a sort of deer in the headlights look.

            Lying is an inevitable part of life. There’s times where a lie is a betrayal and others where it is a blessing. But to lie to a child is unspeakable. When you lie to a child, it’s often because the reality of the situation is too much for them to bear. John had lied to his wife about his profession each and every moment, and he would continue this with his unborn child to the grave. How was he to tell them that he was a murderer, but even worse than that; a willful murderer, one in clean clothes that bid others to do his dirty deeds so as not to dirty his laundry? There was no way, it was unthinkable, almost, imagine saying it out loud. He was sure that the words would choke him, close his airway and seal off each and every alveolus.

            Lying was an instrumental part of his life, at that point, it was certainly a part of him. It was fused to his bones like some kind of leeching parasite, one that took away his honesty, his worth, piece by piece. The more he lied the dirtier he felt, but once the lying started, it was so hard to stop. There’s only so long before there’s nothing left to give, and that sucking, festering, life ruining parasite will finally rest before puckering and shriveling to die without his voluptuous lies to satisfy its greedy belly.

            And that’s where the lying stops. But it didn’t have to be that way, John decided. He could die a liar or die a liar that did one good thing. To tell the truth wouldn’t count, depending on the situation. To tell his wife honestly that she was beautiful was kind, indeed, but it was by no means redemption worthy. No, he had one chance to save himself from that parasite, one shot to not spend his days a perpetual stain and he took it. If anyone would remember anything about the late John Walker, let it be this: he did one good thing, and that was telling the girls the truth and saving them from the snatching, pounding hands of their father. “Someone is worried about your safety. They believe that your dad hasn’t been very nice to you.” He paused, tried to meet one of their gazes, but failed. “Is that true? Does your dad ever say something hurtful? Has he ever done anything to make you feel bad?”

            John wasn’t necessarily qualified to be getting the story from those girls. The situation at the Jones’ house was the first of that nature he’d encountered; he was a glorified executioner, not a social worker. Yet, something about the way he’d said it was just right, either that, or those girls were just that hurt, that they opened up and told him everything.

            Hearing those girls tell the tales of their abuse was horrifying, to hear such soft voices reiterate such stabbing words, to almost feel the fear rise from their hearts and into his. It was all too much; John about broke down into tears, but he knew that not crying was crucial. If he cried, surely the girls would, and Mr. Jones would have a lot of questions. So John bit his tongue and tried not to dwell on the awful details so much as how to help them. Elizabeth and Samantha could be much better off, he was sure of it, but to get the authorization would be the hardest part. However, after hearing these gruesome facts come to surface, John was sure that no one would turn him down, that no monster of a man would have the heart to look those sweet girls in the eye and tell them that their suffering would continue. The case was nearly closed, he was sure of it.


	12. Carbon Copy

            With his heart as heavy as his dragging feet, John left the house, bidding Mr. Jones with a tip of the hat. How ironic that he’d tipped his hat to that man, that he’d done it so many times before and consciously chose to do so again.

            Those dragging soles leapt to life the moment he was out of their yard; he had to make his way to the Townhouse. That was the main building at the center of town where John worked, this daunting, ominous building made of teak and desperation. Although he often thought of it just this way, dark and gloomy as could be, today he saw it in a new light, a beacon of hope. It was the only girls’ hope; everything in town went through the Townhouse, through the Advisor specifically. But the Advisor was rarely sought. How ironic; the man called the Advisor is shielded from half of the problems the town encounters, supposedly to preserve his brainpower from trivial daily nonsense, but likely just to pursue corruption. John knew just how corrupt Lakeland was, right to the core, but he had faith that this time, they would help. They just had to; this wasn’t a problem child they were dealing with, but two mild-mannered, soft spoken young girls, ones who were in danger. He was certain that the town would do something, what that something would entail, he could’ve had told you. But anything would be better than being kept in a house where you’d spent your whole life being tortured, the smell of blood and feces familiar to your senses, the feeling of anguish and fear burned into your memory.

            So since John couldn’t take the dire issue straight into the hands of the all holy-big cheese-just the guy I’ve been looking for-man of the hour-Advisor, he went instead to one of the few men pushing papers for that lazy bastard.

            The particular guy that happened to be there was a man named Eric Frantz. John didn’t like Eric; he never had. John always thought him to be careless to a fault. Not only did he not think through consequences, but it seemed that he lacked the emotional capacity to feel any form of empathy or understanding. Men like those didn’t belong in positions like his, John thought. Men like Eric Frantz reminded John that the only thing worse than that lousy Advisor was the rats sharpening his pencils for him.

            Although Eric was, in John’s opinion, mean-spirited and rather impulsive, John figured that he would make the right decision. After all, there’s nothing a person prides like their job, and in order to protect their title, they may bite their tongue when needed and roll up their sleeves if necessary. It’s likely Eric’s experience with both of these things was limited; his family ties allowed his loose tongue and loafing habits to continue in the Townhouse where they festered, almost spreading to coworkers. The thing about people like Eric Frantz is that the more you hang around them, the more you start to act and think like them, and not for the better.

            For this reason, John was thankful to keep his comfortable distance from Eric. On a few bleak occasions he did have the misfortune to work with him, but Eric was agreeable enough to let John take the reins. That, or he just didn’t want to complete the task himself; the latter certainly seemed to be the case.

            Nevertheless, John was optimistic when he knocked on that office door, confident enough in his town and its operations that this problem would be resolved. There was never a time where he doubted these things; when he had a good feeling about something, boy did that usually turn out. It was when he had a sour pit in his stomach that things would go wrong, but at that moment when he reached the office, all of those feelings weren’t intact. He felt nothing but a pressing sense of urgency, not motivated by a lack of time, but rather, a need to minimize time, moreover, to help. John wanted to help; he knew that if he didn’t do everything in his power to mitigate the situation as quickly as he could, sleep would not come easy, if it came at all.

            Although he’d only been in Mr. Frantz’s office a mere handful of times, John could still notice how perfectly spotless the place was kept. Yes, even then, as John went to describe the situation of a disintegrating family, a small part of him was distracted by the utter cleanliness of the beige carpet. John could complain about Mr. Frantz all he wanted, question his character to the grave, but even _he_ had to admit that the son of a bitch kept a damn tidy room.

            Over the quiet sheen of his oak desk, Mr. Frantz greeted, “John! What can I help you with?” The man spoke as though the two were the best of friends, and from the seemingly genuine warmth in his voice, John may have had the audacity to believe him. The only thing stopping him was that with Eric Frantz, whoever he was currently talking to was his best friend.

            To tell the horrors of the Jones’ household was no easy task. Unable to even fathom how to begin, John’s heart spoke before his brain got the chance. That heart was the fatal flaw; Mr. Frantz was not a man won over by the sheer power of emotion. Despite this, John’s feelings took the forefront while his concrete reasoning retreating, its factual tail tucked between its legs. “We need to help the Jones’ girls.”

            That bastard almost smiled, chuckled, even. Running a lying tongue over his wide lips, he prompted, “Elaborate on the problem, Mr. Walker.”

            In the urgency of the predicament, John took a harsh seat in one of the leather chairs placed in front of Frantz’s desk. He was never offered it, but at the moment, he couldn’t care if he’d tried. “Their father is sexually abusing them, Mr. Frantz. These girls have been subjected to years of degradation and suffering, so much so that I’m sure the pain is unimaginable. It’s our duty to watch out for the citizens of this city, and therefore, it’s up to us to protect them, to remove them from that home and find a better alternative.”

            Mr. Frantz had listened attentively, or at least, as attentively as John ever saw. Once John was finished, all but blue in the face, Mr. Frantz gave a prerogative, clear and simple. “No.”

            If cartoon rules applied, John’s jaw would have crushed the floor of the building as it met the ground with such force. He was shocked, to say the least, but he managed to maintain his composure enough to ask calmly, “Excuse me?”

            “No,” Mr. Frantz reiterated, just as plainly as before. “Would you like me to spell it out for you?”

            Disappointment rose in his chest, floating like a phoenix from the ashes that had been his hope. His hope wasn’t selfish, wasn’t fueled by gluttony or greed. He had the best of intentions, yet his proposal was met by a slapping refusal. God couldn’t have been in that room; he’d left for different matters.

            Soon, that disappointment was replaced by something stronger, a swelling kind of force ballooning inside his chest. Anger, how it had been missed. John was rarely angry; he’d felt irritation and frustration many times, but pure anger was something that he felt only a few times in his life. That was one of those times, and although it may have been a compendium of years spent biting his tongue, he unleashed every ounce of rage onto the terrible decision of that one man. “You must be joking, Mr. Frantz!”

            Shaking his head, Mr. Frantz responded evenly, “Would I joke about little girls being molested?”

            Furious, John snarled, “Not only molested, Eric. Oh God, if only that was it! Raped, Eric, those girls are being raped on almost a daily basis. If they were dead within months, it wouldn’t come as a shock, not to me! God forbid those girls end up dead, I know I will lose sleep. And I wouldn’t be surprised if your slumber is comparable to that of a baby!” John glared at the man, who was still sitting with a smug kind of authority in his desk. Mr. Frantz knew that he was John’s only hope, that was for sure. He had the power to allow what John was asking, that was obvious. But with every issue that reached the Townhouse, Mr. Frantz had a choice that affected the outcome of every single problem. That choice was whether or not to care. And this time, like many others, he chose not to care. See, Mr. Frantz wasn’t just an ass-kissing, paper pushing rat, he was an ass-kissing, paper pushing rat with an ultimate say. Yes, everything in that Townhouse went through him before reaching the Advisor himself. In a way, Eric Frantz was a carbon copy of John, both men with sole, unquestionable power in something that they were supposed to remain unbiased for. However, it was certain that an emotional bias would do both of them good, every now and then.

            John stared the man down, the hate practically burning a hole in his gut. He spoke in fiery knives, but it seemed that Mr. Frantz had built a wall. “My hands are tied.”

            Shaking his head vehemently, John insisted, “You and I both know damn well they aren’t!” He stood so abruptly that the nice leather chair he’d been sitting in toppled on one side. In his blind rage, he hardly noticed, but merely told coldly, “You may not regret this your entire life, Eric. And that’s sad.” He turned, slightly kicking the overturned chair as he left, calling, “But when God judges you, it won’t take Him long to tell Satan to get the fires ready- yes, extra-hot for the man by the name of Eric Frantz- and send you on down to hell.”

            There was so much irony in the situation. John could never list all of the children whose lives had ended by his council, but yet there he was, making a demon of a man doing something of the same nature. The difference, at least to John, was that those girls were innocent. The way he saw it, those kids he sent to death were not, and in his eyes, he was doing the Lord’s work each and every day by ridding Him of the undesirables. Mr. Frantz could never understand a principle like that. He was the type of man that you had to physically scream at and pound concepts into his feeble mind, but when Mr. Frantz wanted, he could put up a wall. He could say no, and he was as stubborn as he was stupid. As much as John wanted to do something, he knew there was nothing. He practically saw his coming hours of sleep slice in half; he’d never live through this. Those girls would always be on his mind, their voices ringing in his ears. Some might have just added that to the list of those haunting his heavy conscience, but there’s only so much a man can take. Yes, one day, John might just snap.


	13. The Panic

He could’ve lied; John realized. After all, Ezra only _suspected_ something dark in the Jones’ household; he was never certain. No, seeing was believing, and Ezra saw nothing, only had a gut instinct that something was wrong.

                   Boy, did that child have instincts. A small part of John worried that maybe Ezra had known more, maybe at some point he had been told what was going on, likely by Claire, but perhaps by any of the Jones girls. It didn’t take long for John to get the truth out of them; maybe Ezra had done the same. Maybe he’d employed John knowing that, by himself, there was nothing to be helped. He did what every child is told and asked an adult, someone seen in a position of power. How ironic would it be if John did just the opposite of what an adult is supposed to do and lied to his face, told him everything is fine in that household.

                   John never liked irony for the sheer novelty. Although he never wanted to lie to Ezra in the first place, a slightly bigger part of him worried that maybe, just maybe, Ezra would be able to detect a lying tongue. After all, he had quite a few tricks, and they seemed to be getting more and more perfected by the day. They all had a psychic quality, so John wouldn’t doubt the possibility that Ezra could, in some way, read his mind.

                   Needless to say, John couldn’t stomach the thought of lying to Ezra. So, he decided against it. But the grim reality of the situation was also too much for him to bear telling, so he spent a good hour caught between a rock and a hard place. He wasn’t sure what to do, and so he did what any sensible person would and avoided the situation for as long as he could. That, and he sought refuge in the one person who’s never let him down, his wife.

                   Despite the fact that John knew the forced, mediocracy of their relationship would make most other couples upturn their noses, he could count on his wife for one thing, and that was consistency. She may not have loved him, but she’d never leave him, and she may not have wanted him, but she’d always need him. He was in the same way trapped; he couldn’t break away if he tried. He was content with that, to a degree, because although it was somewhat of a pathetic settlement, at least it was something to count on. He could trust his wife with anything; he knew that much.

                   So, with nowhere to turn, he fell at her feet, so often as he did those days. To fall on his knees was just fine; he knew that under any circumstance, Carol could pick him up, or at least make the ground comfortable to the point of withstanding.

                   Sparing the gory details, he gave her a basic outline of the current situation. The bottom line was clear and simple; those girls were in major trouble and John had never felt so helpless. Not only was that a problem, but then there was the issue of facing Ezra, which still seemed insurmountable.

                   His wife said little, as always. She wasn’t a woman of many words; she spent much of her time in her head and, as a result, the few words she did utter said volumes more than what most people even think. Vastly intelligent, she was a marvel of a sort. It was somewhat of a tragedy, to have such an expansive mind, only to shelter it from others. John wondered who got hurt more in that deal; Carol for not unleashing her full potential, or John and his fellow men for never digging into the wonders of her thoughts. For each idea some man preached, Carol had twenty to boot; John was sure of it. He never told her just how much he admired her for this, and he wish he had. There were a lot of things that he’d never taken the time to say, things that he thought were best understood unspoken. He’d always assumed these ideas were mutually realized, and of course, it was always too late by the time he knew to say something. That was the thing about love; you could mean it every day of your life but only say it once, and you bet when that person’s gone you’ll rot from the inside out with guilt. Such turmoil could be easily avoided with a few quick words, but rarely do people consider the fact that yes, some day, that person’s heart will stop beating, and they will no longer be around. It’s not that they’re taken for granted, rather that they’re expected to stay.

                   That afternoon was a time where she didn’t have to say anything hardly; no, the comfort didn’t come from what she said, but rather, the lack of speaking. Sometimes John needed to be listened to, not just heard, and Carol was just an excellent person for that. She never gave him those glassy, vacant eyes he’d seen in so many others, hell; he’d seen them in Ezra. At the same time, she didn’t give him any expectant, reactive expressions. No, she just held a solid gaze, an earnest look that told him not that she understood, but that she cared. Most of the times, that was just what he needed to know.

                   After John had finally calmed down, Carol did talk. She gave him one small bit of advice, and it was something that was so purely genius in its simplicity that to overlook it was inevitable. “Stop it yourself.”

                   There were ramifications, so many ramifications. John couldn’t count on both hands and an abacus the infinite amount of consequences that he could face. It wouldn’t just be illogical; to take those girls from their home (yes, even a home like theirs), would be kidnapping, plain and simple. It had been a long time since Lakeland had faced a child abduction, but when that person was indefinitely caught, their punishment was undesirable to say the least. John thought, no, was _certain_ , that he would be killed, and likely not in a humane way. The thought of leaving behind Carol and his unborn child was an idea that made his heart sink slow and steady, and it wasn’t until he started to reason with himself that it rose again. He would take matters into his own hands, sure, but there was a crucial piece of information that he’d been neglecting during this entire scheme-cooking process.

                   The girls’ mother. John wouldn’t think twice that she was just as innocent as her children, almost certainly a victim herself. To get their mother involved would be monumental in his effort to remove the girls from their home. He was positive that it could be done, and he could not wait to bring the good news Ezra’s way.

                   Once he left home, John was gleeful, almost, despite the grim circumstances. After all, there was a silver lining; there was something to be done. God was real and He was good and He was working on John’s side. John knew that Ezra would have some doubts, granted, but he knew that with some talking through it, he could get the boy behind him. It wouldn’t be easy, that was for sure, but it could be done, and that in itself was enough to keep John from hanging his hat and calling the quits, not only on the girls, but on God Himself.

                   Only, Ezra wasn’t home. In fact, he was nowhere to be found. His parents were actually home for a change, but they knew nothing of his whereabouts; claimed he’d gone out to play earlier but has not returned, that they hadn’t seen him for hours.

                   The panic settled in immediately. Ezra couldn’t have gone far, or could he? John had no idea the kind of strength that the boy had built in his arms through his constant use of a wheelchair, and he didn’t doubt that Ezra could be out of sight in that time.

                   Out of sheer habit and through loss of control, John rushed in the direction of work. He didn’t know exactly what he intended on doing; perhaps he was telling others, or maybe he was just going somewhere familiar until his head stopped developing its own gravitational pull. Either way, he was in a hurry, so much so that when the piercing screams arose from the Jones’ house, he was lucky he hadn’t passed its earshot.


	14. Very Wrong

            There was something very wrong in the air that night. Everything seemed to be a bad omen, from the darkening clouds making rounds above to the ebb and flow of rustling yards of dying grass. John had always been interested in the instincts of man, and to him, the concept of prediction was an undeniable truth. To be able to sense a future event may seem silly, ludicrous, even, but John had seen wilder by this point. Ezra would be at the forefront of his mind in the category of head scratchers, but the daunting case of the Jones family was far up there as well. While those twins were of his main concerns, John now had another issue creeping into his consciousness, and that was the debate of Claire Jones’ morality.

            After all, the reason John had let her go was more or less due to her moral quality, or apparent lack thereof. She was selfish and apathetic, cruel and manipulative. She was a hazard to everyone and everything in Lakeland, a threat plain and simple. Of course John had to eliminate her, he couldn’t have a menace like that implanted in the school system like some kind of virus, spreading and influencing surrounding children.

            That’s what he kept telling himself. Yes, he could feed himself that virus mantra as many times as he liked. It was practically on a constant loop in his head on a never ending reel, but he didn’t mind so much, because at least he didn’t have to think about the possibility of Claire being emotionally damaged as a result of her abuse. Any thought of her malice being stemmed from abuse was drowned out, and that was fine. So long as the fault didn’t fall on John, things were dandy. How could he live with himself knowing he’d ended a life on the premises of trauma? That was all drowned out, but the problem with drowning is that no matter how long that thing stays underwater, its only so long before it floats back to the surface.

            Pushing forward through the quiet streets, John was turning the corner onto Ezra’s block, ready to move through the sleepy suburb to his workplace. Only this time, the area was not quiet; no, there was a very still tension in the air, a heavy feeling looming overhead. John thought it to be just that, a feeling, until the thick wave was pierced by screaming.

            High pitched screaming, the screaming belonging to young children, coming from the Jones’ household. John broke into a dead sprint towards the home, unsure of what he was about to face, but responding to the panic all the same.

            He could have sat on that porch for hours thinking of all the nasty things that could have been going on in there. Sure, his mind could’ve painted scenario after scenario of twisted abuse and incest and sodomy and defilement that only scum of the earth would stomach. The image of those girls’ mangled corpses was all too present in his thoughts, so much so that when he opened the door to a different body, he was almost relieved. Happy, in fact, when he found the warped corpse to be Mr. Jones himself.

            Mr. Jones was dead, lying on his own living room floor for what would be the last time. His eyes were clouded already, his features disfigured. Pale and clammy, he lay there, all six foot four of him, sprawled against the shag carpet, the smell of his bloating body surely soaking into the material.

            John gagged; the body isn’t fresh, to say the least. While he’s no expert, it wouldn’t take one to know that the corpse had been there for a while. His exaggerated features of decay were a giveaway in itself; the ripe smell was just a humble assurance that, yes, this body has been on this floor. For how long, who knows? Long enough to worry, long enough to wonder why it’s only being found now. 

            There they were, the girls, huddled and sobbing in their mother’s grasping arms. Mrs. Jones had a look almost unreachable on her face, wide eyes and dropped jaw. John would never forget that expression, that mixture of shock, disgust, and perhaps even relief.

            John spent what felt like an eternity looking from the bloated corpse to the faces of his- no its- family. That was just it, John decided, a dead body has no sex. Biologically speaking, yes, but no identity in a sense. He could call it a “he” all he wanted, he supposed, but it would be more in the nature of referring to an object this way rather than a person.

            That’s all a body is, isn’t it? It’s not a person, it’s not whole. Once that person is gone, it is nothing but a reminder, a reminder that, yes, they were here, and yes, there are no more. John suspects that bodies are buried for more than sanitary purposes. As much as we would like to look upon the face of a lost loved one, that corpse is no match for the person you had known. To move on would be that much harder with that staring you in the eyes.

            How ironic for John to be the philosopher of death after so many years running the chopping block. Still, he knew what that family needed, and that was closure. Closure can’t happen with your husband- former husband, in a way- leaving both an indelible stain and odor on your carpet as his bodily fluids seep through.

            John got them out of there as fast as he could, which wasn’t as quickly as he’d hoped, but still more prompt than he’d expected. That man, as abusive and downright evil as he was, was still their father, her husband, a monster that they had gotten so used to being around that they felt, maybe love? But it wasn’t love, no, more so hesitant familiarity. The girls, being so young, sympathized with their father, John was sure of it. He didn’t need them worrying about that man; they didn’t deserve the burden. He did all he could to remove them from the scene, and that was just the small part of the battle.

            The Jones stayed with John’s family as the situation at their household was mitigated. The body was removed and promptly cremated, no further viewing was allowed. The house was to undergo a deep cleanse, one that would seem fundamentally necessary, but was emotionally useless. Whenever those girls’ eyes happened to land in that particular spot, they would see his body, portentous and swelling, at the foot of the stairs.

            John knew of no words to comfort them. The cause of death was unknown, uninvestigated, even. Those things were never looked into in Lakeland, mostly due to the fact that those things didn’t happen. They had no procedures, never had they faced a situation like this. Had people died in their own homes to be found by their grieving family? Of course. But had that person ever been a middle aged man, healthy as a horse? No. Furthermore, had that person ever carried the blemishes of strange markings all across his body? Irregularly shaped and placed patches of color, like bruises, almost, but much darker. John hadn’t seen anything like it, and neither had anyone else. Furthermore, John hadn’t been a cadaver expert, but he was almost certain that this body was generally out of the ordinary in both appearance and quality. Any of those people in charge of removing the body could have confirmed that the man’s carcass was something unnatural, but John was all too afraid to make what could be written off as a gut instinct a reality.

            Something was very wrong about the way Mr. Jones had died. The man had a novel length list of enemies, and on top of that, they had no solid leads; the body was ritualistically burned. They treated it like every other body they’d found, but this case was very different. There was something wrong, something _paranormal_ , about the entire predicament. But whichever way it was looked at, an abusive man, a domestic plague, the guerilla terrorist of his daughters’ psyche, was gone, obliterated, totally out of the picture. Mr. Jones, child rapist, was dead. Only all that anyone seemed to hear was “An innocent man has been murdered.”


	15. Tribe

            The Jones returned to their house in the latter part of that week. That was much later than what was planned. John told the family the delay was solely for procedural purposes; what he didn’t want them to know was that the overwhelming stench radiating from their father and husband’s carcass was especially potent and consequently took additional time to remove.

            As if his death in itself wasn’t vicious enough, John soon found a new problem on his hands related to the incident. Mr. Jones had been a laborer, yes, just like Ezra’s parents. Whereas John’s work as a scholar was more competitive, thus resulting in more of a shark tank work environment, labor was a job that most anyone in the town was capable of. Those that labored were the bottom scrapings of the community barrel; simply lacking talent for a different rank. As a result, those that labored tended to stick together. It was amazing, the banding together of barely functioning, sometimes illiterate bottom-feeders of society. The wealth that fell through the cracks of those above them seeped into their grubby hands, and that’s what put bread on the table. It was animalistic, the way they looked out for each other. In the most primal sense, it was a tribe of the most civilized kind. They were working, eating, breathing just like every other citizen, and appeared to be only this, but deep down, they were a part of a subculture. This subculture was like any other; innocent, harmless, but with a fire beneath it, that subculture could quickly morph into a kind of cult.

            The laborer tribe stuck through each other through thick and thin and that’s the way it was. They’d seen thick, more so than thin, but _this,_ this was unlike anything else they’d seen. A member of their pride had died of what could easily be deemed as unnatural causes. That was a blow to the chest, but the fact that the only evidence was burned without autopsy was more than that. That was social terrorism. It was neglectful, ignorant, unfair, incompetent. The protest growing in them was linked not only to outrage provoked by the predetermined cold case, but by the fear that they could be next. The rumors of Mr. Jones’ death were as abundant as clouds in the sky, and to be quite frank, some tales of his corpse’s appearance hit the nail on the head. People heard that his eyes had yellowed to the shade of egg yolk (they had), and they became scared that the same might happen to them.

            So not only was this group angered, but they were terrified. In fact, the pure fear played almost as much of a part in the protests as did the sheer rage towards how the crime scene had been handled. Tensions were rising, seemingly by the minute, and John could sense that something major was about to happen. It would go downhill, he was sure, and at that point, there was nothing he could do to stop it. No, all he could do was assess the situation and try to mitigate the inevitable fall.

            The protests began small; hunger strikes, homemade badges reading “Justice for Jones,” peaceful sit ins, the like. Someone had the bright idea to make a profit off of the swelling contempt; they made “Justice for Jones” picket signs that could be planted right in ones’ yard. Not only that, but the signs were wrapped with Christmas lights, allowing them to be visible at all times of day. At night, the Laborers block was lit up with these, first with the glowing light of a few sign, but soon, by dozens.

            Things were not well. Citizens were unhappy, and eager to voice just that. On the other hand, things could be much worse; what those men had done with the body wasn’t just wrong, but it was illegal. The fact was, Lakeland had such a shallow history of crime that no such procedural laws existed; they were made as they seemed fit. This wasn’t necessarily their first homicide, but certainly the first to gain such attention.

            The sit ins attendance seemed to grow by the day, and their rallying point shifted from the public park to the steps of John’s workplace. The people stood with their signs and yelled with their voices, demanding that laws be implemented to accommodate the Jones case.

            Everyone in the town was angry, or so it seemed. Practically every household without a scholar or lord was furious, or at least disgruntled. The system they trusted so dearly had failed them, and they were ready to make a demonstration of it.

            It seemed that everyone in the town became a social rights expert at that point. People who had never cared about such issues became well-versed on the subject, if well-versed is a polite way to say loud. Perhaps it made sense that the lowest class, the laborers, were the heart of the movement. Those who were once looked down on and dismissed were now being lifted up; their voices amplified by upper classes showing support.

            Ironically enough, the civil struggle centered around the case of one family did not include that family. The Jones weren’t excluded, but they weren’t considered. Everyone automatically assumed that the grieving family was just as upset, that the first thing a mourning widow and her children would want is legislation. People had an ugly story and they wanted to have a resolution, but the truth was that it was already resolved. No, the Jones weren’t angry about the death of Mr. Jones, nor were they dismayed by the procedural handling of the body. Despite this, people will take their drama where they can get it, and this whole injustice was the perfect opportunity for people to voice their political opinions and actually be heard.

            So, the people of Lakeland were caught in a web of uprising that was almost useless. If they could prompt some sort of law to be passed, it’s more than unlikely that it’d ever be utilized.  On the other hand, if they could miraculously salvage the remains of Mr. Jones, enough to perform an autopsy, his family would never authorize it. It was over, as far as those girls saw. But for everyone else, it was just beginning.


	16. All of You

            When a bomb is about to drop, you never know the morning of. Everything seems perfectly normal and fine in the hours leading up to the event, yes, even John’s keen radar was thrown off. When his day as an individual is going to be poor, he can tell; he has quite the keen radar in this case. But on a wider scale, for instance, a day where something would happen that would ruin many people’s days, he had no idea. But does anyone ever know? Can anyone sense that the worst is about to happen, or do they later convince themselves that minor inconveniences prior to the event were a sign? For those who are convinced they can tell that their own day will be sour (like John), are they really able to tell, or are they simply accepting defeat? Do they believe that their day will be awful and therefore are doomed to fulfill that? Is destiny existent or do we trick ourselves into thinking so? There’s too many questions and no answer in sight. A person like John would insist that there’s no point asking an unanswerable question, but the Ezras in the world are willing to speculate just for the fun of it.

            Whether or not he was aware of what was going to happen that day, it was coming full force, without so much as a courtesy knock. It seems that these things hit you at the worst possible time; a downfall you could have easier stomached last week hits you when you feel you can’t take it. Still, no matter how much we may complain or how bleak and endless and hopeless we may feel, we get through it (more often than not). John’s never taken comfort in “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle,” because in certain cases, he does. The entirety of the Jones’ case was too much to swallow, and now a man is dead.

            But not only is that man dead, no. In fact, if the sole consequence of everything that had happened in the past week was Mr. Jones’ death, John would have been utterly neutral, satisfied, almost. Unfortunately, this death is carrying into the entire town like some kind of virus; everyone knows where it came from, but no one can solve it. Almost everyone’s become involved; the unaligned are very few families, mostly those that John works with. They don’t have much of a choice to revolt against whatever system everyone else is; they _are_ the system, whether they want that or not, and despite whether they ever realized this connection.

            No matter how many protesters stood out on those work steps, and no matter for how many days, John never grew tired of the slogans those picket signs spelled out. He had to admit, as misguided and ill-informed they were, they were creative. He was ready to arrive at work to a new swarm of righteous puns and statements, but instead, there was a demonstration, if you could call it that.

            All of the steps leading up to the building were inaccessible, covered entirely by the bodies of peacefully protesting citizens. Adults, children, even infants were serving as some kind of roadblock to what they saw as the headquarters of corruption. Sitting among those waves of people were some of John’s colleagues. Yes, the exact men that were lynchpins in what was being fought against, were transferring their responsibilities onto others to take part in a social revolution. What they’re preaching for is what they have done, what they’re fighting is what they are. It’s the most bitter kind of irony, the willingness to shift so easily. It’s unclear whether they changed sides for personal or conformity reasons, but what John knows is that when men like these abandon their defensive fort, it’s people like John that are the ones to scramble to cover the base. John is left, among few others, to continue this charade, this process of assuring the citizens that what happened at the Jones’ house was entirely procedural while putting the idea of enacting new laws for these situations on the back burner. With practically everyone in the town fighting for change, people like John were becoming lenient.

            So maybe that’s what gets in John’s head, this idea that these people have more endurance than those on his side. Perhaps he’s afraid that they’re in it for the long run, and that he had thought this was a sprint race. John had tired all of his resources, all of his logic, all of his sanity. He’s on the brink of something, and what that something is he doesn’t know.

            He has no thought out plan as he works his way through the sea of people. He has no clue about what he’s going to do or say, but at that time, he feels very driven, as though whatever he’s going to do will be great. There’s few times in someone’s life where they sense an existential force moving them, and there’s even fewer times when they easily surrender to it. After so much time of pushing, John is ready to be pushed.

            There’s a podium at the center of the stairs, one that has been considered for use for a Jones’ case-centered press conference. That potential resolution was suggested by one of the very men sitting on that stairs, a man of no permanent ideals and no fixed values. John can almost find him in the crowd, almost looks him in the eyes as he stands behind that podium.

            The structure is bare of a microphone, but John is so worked up that he doesn’t need one. He stands not before, but directly in the center of the heart of the movement. It’s quite the position to be in, and he’s fully aware of the power he has at that moment.

            All that gone to waste. He couldn’t have filtered what came out of his mouth; he’d hardly thought of it before it was being said. But out it came, ugly and abrasive, for the ears of dozens upon dozens of protesters to hear. John didn’t just utter the words, no, he screamed them, his words bringing the rattling buzz of conversation to a halting finish. “Mr. Jones was _not_ a good man! You people don’t understand; you don’t know! You don’t understand what he did, what he was, and what he put his family through. You just make assumptions and you feed off it like, like some kind of sick little parasites! All of you should be ashamed of yourselves! All of you!” John came to, and pairs of eyes were meeting his, not staring daggers, but rather, open vacantly wide with surprise and loss for words. John stammered calmer, “I-I would go to work now, but my path is blocked.” With that, he shuffled out from behind the stand and down the stairs. The descent to the street was much easier than the climb up had been; a crowd that used to step in his way now clears a path. Having reached the sidewalk, John spared one last look at the people, silent still. Shaking his head, he left, his pace solemn and grim. He was going home for the day; it seemed everyone did whatever wanted then.


	17. He Ran

            John paced home against the heavy morning cold, which served as mitigation to John’s boiling blood. He was sweating bullets; they came in fat beads that ran into fine streams which fell to his lashes and burned his eyes. He wasn’t feeling well at all; a storm something awful was brewing not only in his body, but in his mind and heart too. He felt the overwhelming weight of all the stress that had been accumulating over the past months. It was as though someone had been collecting bricks for the sole purpose of dumping them all on his porch at once. The bricks came thick and fast, bringing everything around them to shambles. John was a fractured man; he walked home as though he had a physical injury, when the only problem was the mass of circumstances that have plagued him these last months. He forgot the good in his life- his wife was no longer in the picture, nor was the now eight month old baby that was dwelling inside of her. That baby was on the brink of birth, the dawn of existence, and John couldn’t even remember what they might name it at that point. These thoughts would return when the rain washed away, but for now, the sheets of water disfigured them beyond the point of recognition.

            He was going home, he figured. Where else would he go? Going in that direction only because he had nowhere else to turn, he didn’t even consider the fact that going home would be best at that point. Being surrounded by his family in his own place of recovery would be therapeutic indeed; much more forgiving than these cracked sidewalks littered with the occasional few strands of dying grass. The Jones signs line each house, making John’s vision tunnel with rage. All of these people who didn’t have the entire story were choosing sides and burning bridges by the dozen, wrecking all sorts of relationships, community harmony, and career options. But they didn’t care; they were driven solely by their outrage, not logic. Their preaching and laws and cute little pamphlets were nothing short of propaganda; it inspired fear in families that yes, this man died, is someone in your household next? It instilled fear, not actual strive for change. These people were lashing out purely from emotions, not rationality, and a situation like this usually leads to something much worse.

             Having once anticipated it from blocks away, John reaches Ezra’s house without even an acknowledgment. He spares no passing glance, and a place that he once associated with honor and pride, is now just another thorn in his side, despite the fact that it bears no Jones support indicator of any kind. It doesn’t matter if John refused to recognize the house; Ezra had been waiting outside, ready for John’s arrival. He rushed out to the sidewalk from the path leading to his porch, arms pumping furiously to meet John. “John! I have something to tell you!”

            Over the time he’d known the boy, John’s opinions about Ezra have changed very much. They haven’t shifted just once, but a fair handful of times. There was the initial unfamiliarity, which was followed by respect, companionship, and feelings of apprehension, feelings of uncertainty, of fear. Those tricks had been getting more and more powerful; Ezra was undeniably getting stronger. Knowing that he should trust Ezra, at the same time, John has seen firsthand very recently the tendency of people to change their tune. It may be turning a new leaf, or it could be regressing to behaviors that they had once put behind them. It could be something as simple as the unconscious decision to stop wearing crewneck sweatshirts and switch to those with hoods. For many people, a change of heart was major, and a switch in behavior minor. Ezra was the only person John knew that could raise literal hell if he one day decided to stop being a good person, and that scared him more than anything. His powers knew no boundaries; there wasn’t anything he’d put them to that hadn’t been achieved, even if it required days, sometimes weeks of practice. John couldn’t imagine what his limitless tricks could accomplish, and a large part of him was too fearful to.

            So now, the apprehension is back, only it’s different this time around. Originally, John was afraid because he didn’t know Ezra well enough; who could say the extent of his abilities? This time, John knows only partially what the child is capable of, and the thought is enough to chill him to the bone. It’s not can he, it’s would he ever, and John feels bad for even questioning Ezra’s integrity. However, John knows that if Ezra were to ever turn to corrupt use of his gift, he would try to stop him. Even more frightening is the thought that even if he tried, it was all too possible that John could never stop Ezra if such a predicament were to occur.

            Continuing his push forward, John ignored the boy. He has too much on his mind at that moment; the chance of saying something he’ll regret out of haste was too likely. He intended on moving just like that, leaving Ezra behind, but the boy manages to keep up with John. Very soon, John could hear Ezra panting, his breath becoming short because whatever he has to say is _that_ important that yes, he will chase John down for blocks if he has to, no matter what condition it puts him in. That made John feel too sympathetic towards his friend to simply brush him off, so he indulged him by stopping. “You have my attention, what is it?”

            Taking a moment to catch breath, Ezra swallowed. “I have something to confess.”

            “Now’s not the best time,” John advised. Ezra wasn’t there to see what had just happened, but John was sure that he could assume it was bad by John’s demeanor.

            “I have to get this off of my chest,” Ezra pleaded. Tears welled in his deep eyes as he started to speak, but the words came out choked and garbled. John asked him to speak again, and there the words fell out like water tossed down a well. “I killed Mr. Jones.”

            Totally incapacitated by the weight of his words, John stood their dumbly, growing more and more numb by the moment as Ezra made his case. “I didn’t mean to! I came over there because I heard screaming and… I just wanted to help! I wanted to help the girls! He started yelling at me and it freaked me out and he just kind of fell and he wasn’t breathing.”

            A clouded haze swirling through his mind, John asked slowly, “Are you sure it was you?”

            Ezra nodded. “Positive.”

            “How can you tell?” John questioned, still in that eerily calm, level voice. It was the kind of voice a person would use talking someone down from a jump to their death. With a tone so calculated he became nervous just thinking about saying it, he added, “Perhaps something else caused it.”

            “Whenever I do a trick, I can feel myself kind of flex, my head kind of gives a single pulse. It happened, and then he died.” Ezra was crying then, tears sliding down his cheek. He wiped one away, telling, “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t even try to do anything! It just happened on its own.”

            For one of the few times in his life, John was at a complete loss at what to do next. He’d always been the mediator, the man with an utterly calm, cool collection about him, the one to fix things deemed unfixable. Alas, that title has passed. Once in the position of power, able to manipulate anything to find a resolution, he is now at the mercy of God, or whatever is causing all of this. All throughout his life, John has had a firm belief in the workings of God, of His will and care. Unfortunately, those events that were falling from the sky like some kind of endless rain were flooding the streets, pulling up earth, and plaguing the sky with the bleakest grey tint. Everything was dark and everything was cold, and it seemed that since it was then, that would never change. John hadn’t lost belief, no, he’d merely misplaced it. It could return on its own or with his intervention, but either way, it had gone for the moment.

            He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t speak, he could hardly breathe, and thinking seemed to be an insurmountable obstacle. It’s our actions that define who we are, and at that moment, John had lost all ability to do anything. Everything that made him human: empathy, thought process, language, was tossed to the wayside. With all discretion torn away, he had no choice but to regress to his primal instincts.

            He ran. Turning quicker than he ever had in his life, he high tailed in the opposite direction, further from home, but closer to relief. Shoes clapping against the harsh concrete surface of the sidewalk, he didn’t slow down. Ankles quivering against the cracks and divots, as well as his own weight, he didn’t stumble. Ezra left behind, dumbstruck and crying, John didn’t stop. He kept going, pushing until his lungs heaved in protest and his knees strained and tightened. He moved forward, sweat forming a thin film about him, and fingers clenching, fingernails forcing their way into the skin of his palm. He ran, leaving fear behind him, only to have it in front.


	18. Dilemma

A dilemma was underfoot. The explanation of one problem had led to an overall exacerbation of the situation, and yet there John was, running as if he could actually escape it. The borders of the town don’t go far; he knows better than to delve off into the woods. He’s been to enough execution processes as well as body disposals to know the dense areas surrounding the town for miles. He would get lost; that’s not a possibility, it’s a guarantee. If he hadn’t had a child and wife at home depending on him, he may have just ventured off, never to return. He didn’t know what was all out there as far as resources go, but it seemed to be a perfectly reasonable option at that point, even if it ended in death by exposure.           

Once he reached the outskirts of town, he circled around to the far side, making a full loop around its border to reach his house. It was just about the most unproductive, inefficient, unnecessarily difficult way to get home, yet he took it. Usually he did that when he needed some time to himself, but for once, he just needed time away.

His legs felt as if they were composed entirely of lead as he trudged up to his own door. Even his arms ached; he had been so tense while he was running that the muscles were sore from tightening. Stomach constricting further with each step, he reached the front yard just in time to dispose his breakfast into the azaleas.

Mouth raw and tongue swollen with acid, he wiped his lips on one sleeve before entering his home. Music was filling the den area, playing from the family radio. John approached it slowly, turned it off. His wife, Carol, was nowhere in sight.        

Worry began to set in. It was almost surreal; the gut-clenching, tremble-inducing phenomena that comes about you when your pregnant wife goes temporarily missing. John began to catastrophize, imagining the worst case scenario had befallen his wife and left her dead, their child taken away before its first breath. He didn’t see it so farfetched; the citizens were angry and knew where he lived. After that display those vultures have put on for days on end, John didn’t put it beyond them to stoop to such an irredeemable low. Although he wanted to see the glimmering light in the darkening void that was human nature, he anticipated shadows.

Upon hearing the creaking back door fall ajar, John perked up, rushing to the source. In came his wife, holding her stomach with a pained expression on her face. Sweat beaded on her upper lip in monstrous drops, and the faintest curls of her hair sat plastered against her face. Of all the symptoms she was presenting, by far the most worrisome was the appearance of her eyes. Usually, the brown contrasted deep and dark against the whites of her eyes, making them seem to glow. Only then, the brown hues had burned to a weak, pale golden shade. Even more remarkable was that the whites of her eyes looked like nothing of the human kind; they had yellowed to a sickly saffron color, hauntingly familiar to the tones that had rose in Mr. Jones eyes after his death.

Carol nearly collapsed as she struggled to cross the threshold. John hurried to her aid, pulling one arm around her and the other beneath her stomach, helping to gently lift her to her feet. Walking in limped baby steps, he ushered her to the couch, where she finally fell, the old cushions sinking beneath her form as she slithered around in quiet agony.

Oddly calm, she spoke through clenched teeth, “I need a nurse.”

Nodding, John knew exactly what had to be done. It was a reversal of current situations; this time, he knew nothing of what was happening, but the solution was obvious. His wife needed medical assistance, more than a nurse by the looks of her. She was modest, dimming her suffering to try and spare trouble. But John was all too aware of the roaring pain raising and crashing behind her eyes, like angry green waves. He had seen her bony, delicate fingers grip the cotton cover of the sofa as though her not only her life, but her child’s life had depended upon it. Something was not right; something was very wrong, and she was trying to downplay the situation because she wasn’t a fan of making a scene. John was not one for dramatics, but he could recognize when a fuss needed to be made, and that was the time. He was going to call the hospital, and he’d be damned if his wife was cross with him for splurging on the emergency room.

Just as he reached for the phone, it rang loudly; it’s metallic, shrill cry making John jump in his skin. Heart racing in his chest, his hand approached the receiver slowly, closing around it in the manner one would hold a gun. At that moment, the phone was nothing but a gun; it had the potential to do something terrible, but he saw it as necessary as water. Words carried weight, and John felt completely unprepared to bite the metaphorical bullet. “Hello?”

“John? It’s Ezra. Please, please, I’m begging you not to sell me out.” The tears were heavy and his voice wavering and breaking. Just hearing the utter terror and agony behind those words was a blow to John’s gut. For the first time, he felt like Christian burden of wandering thought. To think about a sin is sin in itself; to even briefly consider outing Ezra was an act of treason. John had guilty written all over him, and his thought seemed almost more permanent than his actions. His hands weren’t just red, they were stained. “You don’t understand, I-”

“Ezra, calm down,” John ordered. “I’m not going to do that.” He sighed heavily, his eyes involuntarily traveling back towards where Carol lay, sweating buckets and breath constricted to tight, pulling gasps. Whatever was going on, there was no guarantee it wouldn’t get any worse, so John knew he had to act fast. “There’s an emergency, I’ll speak to you later.”

There was a click, followed by stark silence. Confused, John withdrew from the earpiece, then bringing the device back to his cheek, only to be startled by some kind of harsh buzzing noise. The sound was anything unlike John had ever heard; buzzing was the closest way to describe it. Loud, almost ear piercing, it rang through to his core, making him shake. This sound gave a similar sensation to being shocked, and for a moment, John caught himself wondering whether or not electrocution via phone was possible. Standing, paralyzed with shock, John’s knees began to tremble beneath his weight, as though the pounds they’ve carried for years have all the sudden become too much to bear. The receiver fumbled in John’s hands and fell, its curled, yellow cord suspending it a foot or so above the ground. That noise it was emitting ceased, yet John found himself shaken, too frightened to even pick up the dangling phone.

In the way that a highly intelligent criminal might contemplate their next course of action, John weighed his options. The most pressing, obvious solution was what he wanted least, and that was to recollect himself, pick up the phone, and call for help. John was a man of perfect logic; his thought process was rational and sharp, calculated to an accuracy others could only dream of. If someone was as quick witted as him, they were incorrect. Likewise, if they were gifted in accuracy, they could not find answers in such a short amount of time. His problem solving skills, as well as his general intelligence, were a crutch that he had clung to for all of his life, and they had never failed him. That was, until that day. Not knowing what to do was almost an out of body experience; John was always cool and collected, always the one in control, always the one who could find the solution. Intellect untouchable and The pinched whimpering from Carol had evolved into harsh breathing, thick and accelerated. That was something he hadn’t anticipated, rather, feared. Her condition was declining.

That pushed him to reach a decision, and that choice was to rush to the nearest home with a doctor. It was some three blocks away, but John knew he was capable of getting there soon. His wife was in danger; he’d run at the speed of light if it’d bring her back. She wasn’t herself; she wasn’t okay, and this thought propelled him through the door and down the stairs in a dead sprint.

Having rushed to the yard so quickly, John almost didn’t see Ezra’s figure coming up his sidewalk. He considered pushing past him, but after hearing that boy’s emotional state over the phone, he found this almost as immoral as prolonging his wife’s medical assistance. Ezra would come along, he figured. John didn’t speak at first; he just grabbed Ezra’s arm with one sweating palm and moved forward.

Ezra stopped, planting the brakes on his wheelchair so abruptly that John almost fell forward with the momentum he had been building. He looked at Ezra wildly, wondering what that boy was thinking. He expected Ezra to be confused, but there was nothing but steely determination in his light eyes. Brows furrowed and tone even, Ezra ordered, “We’re going back.” John opened his mouth to protest, but Ezra insisted, “I can help her; I know I can.”

            Then, Ezra turned his wheelchair around firmly, moving back towards the Walker residence with the wind at his back. John stood, caught in both a lack of understanding as well as an internal conflict of which way to go. He trusted Ezra, there was no doubt, but Ezra hadn’t seen the detrimental state that Carol was in. He didn’t see the whites of her eyes tinge to colors thought impossible, nor did he hear her shallow breaths, reaching helplessly. Still, Ezra pushed to the house, and John found himself with no other option but to follow.

            Once they got inside, they found Carol in that same agony. Ezra took no shock at her condition; he remained admirably calm as he approached the sick woman. Only, to call her sick would imply that her illness was temporary, that she would get better. To call someone sick is to inspire hope, and she was on the brink of something, no doubt, but it was impossible to determine which way she would go.

            Placing a small hand against her cheek, Ezra withdrew from the rays of heat escaping her skin, rushing forward eagerly like waves onto a shore. He breathed deeply, brought his palms together and rubbed them. Then, he let out one sharp exhale, simultaneously planting a hand on either of Carol’s temples.        

            What happened next, John would never be able to explain. He saw what happened, took in each moment, but he found it impossible for all of his days to try to attach meaning to any of it. He saw what he saw, but he didn’t know it. He could only watch in stunned silence, the kind that would linger for days, as golden embers transferred from hand to head, between Ezra and his wife. Initially, John couldn’t tell whether the flakes were leaving or entering his wife, but from the warm glowing swelling in Ezra’s palms, John could guess their source.

At first, there was no visible change to detect. Those small, yellow particles floated about, swirling around his wife like some kind of fluttering halo, but he saw no change in her health. That was, until those golden specks were washed over with grey, first gradually, almost unnoticeably, but soon enough, each and every one had gone from a brilliant dandelion complexion to blended shades of grey. His wife was buried under them; every part of her head concealed by the ashy cloud floating about her. Eventually, they cleared, and there she was, completely renewed. She looked better than she had throughout her entire pregnancy; she had an unearthly radiance swelling beneath her skin. Her eyes had brightened, returned to their old color, and her breathing was gentle and easy. Angelic beauty swarming through her, she smiled and thanked Ezra. “I don’t know what you did, but thank you.”

Ezra grinned himself, bringing his hands back to his sides. He peered up at John, beaming. He had done it, and even though nobody knew exactly what that “it” was (besides Ezra perhaps), he had achieved it. He saved her life and the life of their child; John wouldn’t dare question it. And for that, he thanked him. The words he spoke were all he needed; Ezra didn’t need to know just what a pivotal point that was for John. What happened affirmed his faith in the boy entirely. John came to realize that Ezra’s powers, as dangerous as they were, had an undeniable goodness to them. There was no doubt about it; Ezra’s tricks had done something extraordinary. The only difference was that this time, he had saved someone, two people, in fact, and while that didn’t erase what he accidentally did to Mr. Jones, it sure as hell made it easier to swallow.

           


	19. Choices

            John Walker maintains that all life really is is a plethora of choices. These choices are of all different natures and intensities; some are life-changing, and some don’t seem to matter much. But the fact is that each choice matters in some way, whether that be the most miniscule effect, like bringing a peanut butter sandwich to work instead of ham and being consequently thirsty for the hours following break. People like to convince themselves that their choices don’t mean anything, because it’s a lot easier to hit a breakthrough when you ignore the possible ramifications. They don’t like the idea that what they do or say might have a negative impact, so they destroy the notion, along with the thought that what they do might have a positive outcome. It’s a sort of way to dodge responsibilities, to shift blame. Some people try to argue that fate is inevitable and we’re at its mercy, while others are convinced that life is a random series of events that have no meaning. Whichever way, they are denying the absolute control everyone has of their situation, because at the end of the night, it’s so much easier to be mad at something else.

            These choices aren’t just meaningful, but they’re telling. The choices we make say a lot about the person we are; even avoiding making a final decision says plenty about one’s character. Maybe that’s why people try to downplay their daily choices; act as if nothing matters. They don’t want anyone to see the kind of person they really are, the kind of evil that they’ve always thought they might have in them. But are people solely defined by their actions, or is there a “deep down” part of them that is inherently good, riddled with good intentions and miscommunications? John could never figure that out, and deciding whether or not a child’s moral capacity is adequate is extremely difficult when that something is so hard to judge.

            Eventually, John decided that choices make a person. Choices reflect thought, which is just a peek into someone’s soul. That’s why people refuse to take responsibility; why they settle for apathy rather than action. If it were possible, too many people would be content carrying on with their lives without making a single decision.

            Enough with the passivity. May the continual deflection of responsibility end. Let us all step forward in utter rejoice as we accept our fate, become masters of our own destiny in the very moment that we make that choice. John had never been afraid of choices, no, he embraced them. Knowing that the entirety of his career revolved around a single decision made time and time again, he couldn’t bite the hand that feeds. He was grateful, so grateful. Aware of the mass upset that decision making causes, he swam against the current, and although he knew that turning back and going with the waves would be so much easier on his body, he knew that pushing through adversity was the single greatest task for his mind.

            Now, the choice is yours. Which ending will it be? The tale has been written, warts and all, but now it is left unsealed. Accept your task as an unstoppable force in the turning of the world, don your role as a puppet master. Pull the strings in whichever way you see fit and watch those puppets, see them bend beneath your hands. Feel the sheer power in knowing that you have made a difference, no matter how small it may be.

            There are three endings that can finish this story. Which one you will accept is up for you to decide. Your choice may not be random; the headings are telling enough for you to make an informed decision. The three endings are: The Optimist Ending, The Pessimist Ending, and the Realist Ending. You can have someone choose for you, but you are only cheating yourself, the same way that we all cheat ourselves from determining our future with the rejection of each little choice. We are responsible for our own happiness, which is exactly why everything is great and nobody is satisfied. 


	20. Optimist Ending

            Welcome to the optimist option, also known as the space for people who tremble in the face of conflict. You came to avoid the darker plot lines, the possible character deaths, and the gut wrenching story telling abilities shelled out for your pleasure. You don’t want to face your emotions, not now. You came for a way out.

This is just a story, remember; the contents of this book will in no way be detrimental to you. Yet you choose the easiest way, the happy ending, if you will. The truth is, disappointment is a guarantee in life, and not all stories have a happy ending. There are times where every potential outcome is tragic, and the only distinction between these tragedies is which tragedy is less tragic than the other tragedies. Think about the Titanic. Was there any way to avoid death that night? Was there any possibility for everyone to come out safe and sound, or was every passenger doomed the moment that boat reached water?

You want a happy ending, that’s why you came here. You want to see a miracle; you want this tension swelled within you dissolved by an easy fix. There are no miracles here. Everyone says they want a miracle, but in presence of such phenomena, they panic. They will destroy what they don’t know and pigeonhole what they cannot understand. The human race is full of a bunch of hypocrites; we had our miracles in the times when Christ walked the earth, and just how did that end for Him? If you want a miracle, look elsewhere; it is not a story’s duty to instill wonder in you when that reality would cause you to turn and scream.


	21. Pessimist Ending

            John had seen his share of panics. He had weathered some storms, lived through upset, and witnessed a great deal of ruin. In this particular trying time, it was his friend in the guillotine, and John couldn’t help but feel partially responsible in tightening the restraints. He didn’t dig the grave, but he certainly made it deeper. But Ezra was more than a friend; he singlehandedly saved the lives of John’s wife and unborn child. John owed him to no extent; he knew he would never find the perfect words to thank him. In a way, there was one road to repayment, and that was to help Ezra in his dire times.

            So, John did nothing. He was aware of the exact nature of Mr. Jones’ death, but he reported it to no one. Having passed by Ezra’s house every day to and from work, he didn’t dare stop, at least not long enough to say hello. When the occasional topic of the Jones family appeared in conversation, John took a temporary oath of silence and his demeanor cried neutral. John didn’t want to neglect seeing Ezra, but he knew it had to be done, at least for a while. When everything to do with Mr. Jones died down, then John could maintain that friendship. Only then could he set foot in that familiar yard or look down into those friendly eyes.

            They were riding the storm out, so to speak. Waiting for things to settle themselves, John was positioned firmly in his avoidance. He was so sure that everything would resolve in its own given time, that was, if he let it. Having seen such talk of the town come and go, John knew there would come a time where the Jones family didn’t matter like they used to. Passions would die out; protests would suffer in turnout more and more by the week until eventually, no one came at all. Even those lights that everyone had displayed on their porch along with their protests signs would be forgotten, damaged by wear, or discarded. Soon enough, they would serve as any ordinary lawn decoration. At some point in time, people won’t be able to recall the names of the Jones girls. John thought that might be best.

            It was a brilliant strategy. It was certainly realistic; all it took was time. Although, like any tactic, it had its downfall. A seemingly perfect plan hatched by a wise mind, it still had that weak point, an Achilles heel. There’s nothing to be done to fix these flaws; all you can do is pray that the enemy aims somewhere else. In John and Ezra’s case, they both overlooked the fatal flaw that had this scheme doomed from the start. John had inadvertently pushed all of his loved ones into the role of a sitting duck.

            And sit they did, each of them, through quiet turmoil as deceptive as summer storms. Everything they knew was being manipulated before their eyes, but still, they sat in stony terror. Frozen they stayed, eyes so fixed on the dangers ahead of them that they failed to see the bigger picture. John knew just how dangerous their enemy really was, but he underestimated just how low they would sink. He had seen those attitudes around work, the brutality, the entitlement, and most of all, the ever-present apathy. That total lack of regard for others, the discarding of what made them human, John had seen it every day. Apathy was the audacity to look God in the face and say you don’t care. It was a virus, as contagious as it was detrimental. 

            He should have seen it coming. John hadn’t so much underestimated the enemy so much as he’d wrongly assumed their morality. He worked with those people day in and day out, had watched their ugliest selves come forth. Malice, carelessness, ignorance, arrogance, he’d seen it all. Still, he never would have guessed that they had the guts or the means to do what they did.

            John hadn’t seen Ezra in months. Noticing that talk of the Jones had all but diminished, John knew they had done well. All throughout town, he could not find a single “Justice For Jones” sign anywhere. It all seemed to happen overnight; it was almost eerie. John took that as a sign, one that for the first time in months, everything was back to the way it used to be.

            With everything seeming nonthreatening and generally normal, John saw no problem with marching himself up to Ezra’s house to stop by. He thought he’d share the good news, that the two could relish in their triumph. Ezra had made it; the unthinkable was done. He had wormed himself through the hands of the most deliberately designed fool-proof system and lived  to tell about it. The smile on John’s face was indelible.

            Until he reached the house. Everything was well and behind him, until he saw the tire tracks. Deep and set in the yard, hardened and heavy, he knew that they had been there for a while. Rushing to the door, he found it locked. Trying every window, he found them the same, that was, until he reached the backyard. In the backyard on the left side of the house was one broken window, shattered completely through. Careful not to catch himself on any of the glass as he crawled inside, he couldn’t help but notice the shards and pieces across the floor. It had been broken from the outside.

            The dining room wasn’t a dining room at all. It didn’t look like one. Dining rooms are supposed to be warm and inviting. They’re a family room, and this is supposed to be evident from the moment you walk in. But that was no dining room. Table bare and stripped of its cloth, the bundled material was left on the floor. Dust was collecting on the tabletop surface; it must’ve been left alone for some time. Chairs lay overturned and strewn across the tile floor, legs going every which way. As he proceeded through the house, John saw each room the same, disrupted, disorderly, and eerily abandoned. His heart raced through his chest. However all of this furniture was disturbed, no one bothered to try and fix anything.

            Shattered picture frames lay across the ground, photos still intact. They must have fallen from the wall, John assumed, where bludgeoned holes cover the saffron paint. Chips of soft yellow litter the ground from where they had come off. Something hit the wall with a lot of force, and more than once. He followed the holes along to the next doorway, where he entered the den.

            Then he saw it, the final blow to the gut. Apprehension had been crawling in his stomach from the moment he saw those tire tracks, but now, it was eating ulcers through and through. It was apparent that some kind of emergency had happened, but this single piece of information obliterated any hope he had of Ezra being alive. His wheelchair lay on its side, one wheel bent out of shape. Dust collected on this as well, just as it did everything else in that damn house.

            John wasn’t dumb; he knew exactly what happened. There was just a small part of him that had hoped that maybe, just maybe, in trying to search the place and find clues he’d be able to make everything okay. But it wasn’t okay. John had a very clear picture of what happened. Ezra’s entire family was gone, they weren’t going to ever come back, and that bastard Eric Frantz is probably the front runner for employee of the month as the instigator of the home invasion.

           


	22. Realist Ending

           John had a long life. Or at least, he thought so; what seemed so personally intricate and massive to him was of miniscule importance or relevance to the universe. What he said and did impacted himself as well as those around him, but who would be around to remember these things? There will be a time that humanity’s existence comes to a permanent close, and after that, there will be nothing. There will be no legacy to put forth or tradition to uphold. The thought is scary, utterly terrifying, in fact, but even more horrifying is the inarguable fact that when the human race ends, it won’t stop the rest of the world from pushing forward. Humans have such tunnel vision; their perspectives are obstructed by ingrained anthropocentrism and an inherent sense of high esteem, so much so that rarely do they even consider the fact that there was a time before humans, and a time after will come. They may think that what they do matters, that any good deed is of monumental proportions, but the truth is that in the grand scheme of things, nothing will matter.

            That makes it easier. That made it so much easier for John to carry through with a life saturated with bad decisions, broken promises, and poor judgment without feeling responsible for any of it. After all, will any of this even matter? He told himself no, and that’s not shifting the blame, but annihilating it. There were things he had done, actions that had stained his hands as well as his heart, but once he was gone, that would be the end of it, at least for him. He had less things to be proud of than he did to regret, and that’s why he needed to give himself a reason as to why it didn’t matter. It didn’t count, he decided. Indirectly sending children to their deaths wasn’t on him, he figured. A big part of him suspected that he was a bad person, but that was a potential reality he was not prepared to face. Coping was a heavy theme in those last few months that Ezra was around, and lying to himself using existentialist ideals was just one of the many tricks up his sleeve.

            As unhappy as he was with not only what he’d done, but also who he was, he was slightly comforted by one thing and one thing only. Of everything he’d tainted, all that he’d broken, and everyone he’d hurt, he had yet to disappoint his loved ones. He had a ratio in his promises made to his promises kept, and before he had known Ezra, and before his wife’s pregnancy, it was floating at approximately 1,896 to four. He was aware of this, but it never bothered him. His thoughts never rested on it heavily, not enough to put him out of a good mood. That was, until he had met Ezra. That was the pivotal point in his life, he decided. So many changes had surfaced after meeting the boy, enough for John to identify a correlation. He owed a lot to him, and for this, he swore that he would never let him down. He would weather any storms that brewed and endure the harshest of winters all in return for a gift. Ezra had a gift; that was no doubt, but perhaps his most valuable impact was in the way he’d affected John’s life. John could never repay him, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t do all that he could to try to. The ends would never meet, but he was going to see just how far they could stretch.

            If John had anything to pride himself on, it was on his relationship with Ezra. Ezra was the closest thing he ever had to a son; John cared for him more than words could describe. To see Ezra hurt, to see him in danger, the suffering was incomparable. John was going to do what he could to keep him safe, and he knew that in that case, that meant one thing.

            Keep quiet. Keep quiet about everything. Don’t let anyone know about how Ezra had inadvertently killed Mr. Jones, don’t tell anyone about the unique circumstances of the entire situation, and never speak a word of Ezra’s gift. His wife knew about the gift, even if only due to her being treated by them. She saw them initially the way John did eventually, as beautiful. She had no reason to out Ezra, and when John thought about it, neither did he. He knew the exact extent of the horrors Mr. Jones had committed, and a big part of him is convinced that Ezra had known as well. It made his death much more forgivable. John could live that down, he decided. He could take the fact that a man who dared to commit heinous acts against babies that he had seen take their first breath was going to rot in hell just like he rotted against his damn carpet. Remembering the lewd crimes, it did more than excuse it, no, it justified it.

            John wouldn’t tell anyone who didn’t already know. He hadn’t explicitly told his wife, but he was quite certain that she had put the pieces together on her own. She would give him these knowing glances. She was much smarter than he had ever given her credit for, and he wouldn’t forgive himself for how long he had put her to the side. He hadn’t rejected who she was; she never had the chance to share her true self. No, he pushed her away without giving her a chance, and although it was in no way equivalent to what Mr. Jones did, John sometimes viewed himself just as dirty, just as inherently evil.

            At that point, there was one other truth that John could pat himself on the back for, and that was that he had always had a handle on things. Each obstacle he encountered he could maneuver, often with minimal difficulty. He had a way of influencing things, and this often worked in his favor. Keeping this little secret wouldn’t be a problem, not with someone like him at the reins. He was confident in his ability to play cover-up, and he put very much faith into the idea that Ezra’s powers being exposed was a far possibility. That’s what made it so devastating when the next few weeks came.

            Time had passed, and John hadn’t forgotten, but the memories of such horrific events had softened, almost having a dreamlike quality to each. He was sure that when he was old and ridden with dementia, he might truly believe that that’s all that year was, a dream. That’s all it would seem to be, those thoughts you dwell on so long that imagination is indistinct from memories, the thoughts in the back of your mind that are so permanently pressed that you can’t remember a time where they weren’t there, the lies that you love to repeat until you fall victim to them. John couldn’t wait for that to happen, for each stinging thought to take the form of a chronological smudge, the lines between reality and imagination blurred. That stale, earthy smell of nursing homes had gained so much appeal at that point.

            Before those memories could fully set into his psyche, John was startled one morning with alarming news. He had woken abruptly, almost as if he had been physically jerked from sleep. Only, there was no sound to stir him. At the time his eyes shot open, no sound was detectable in the house. Nor was any light, smell, or any other stimuli that could have possibly prompted a such harsh wakeup. He hadn’t even dreamt.

            He gazed over at his sleeping wife, her pregnant stomach full and gentle against his own side. She was going to be at nine months in a few short weeks, and then, just like that, their very own flesh and blood would be taking the space they had claimed theirs, learning concepts they had thought instinctual, and breathing air they took for granted. They had yet to settle on a name; they wanted to first see the baby before landing on such a crucial part of its identity. They didn’t know the sex of the baby yet, and that was a very deliberate choice. They didn’t want the entirety of their child’s life to be a long, thought out plan of action. Both John and his wife believed that certain aspects of a person’s life should be ruled by impulse, that some of the fondest moments come from those times that we acted on what we felt in that moment, not on what the itinerary had spelled out for us. As much as humans tend to conform to routine, and as comfortable as they may seem, perhaps it is in our stubbornness to abandon this approach that we doom ourselves to dissatisfaction with life.

            He rose slowly, dreading the day already. His alarm had another fifteen minutes until it was set to go off, but he didn’t return to bed. Rather, he stood and turned it off so as not to wake Carol. Getting dressed as quietly as he could, he then tiptoed off into the bathroom, where he quickly readied himself before leaving early for work. It was for the best that he showed up early that day, but he didn’t know why then.

            When he arrived, the entire atmosphere of the room was an apprehension, a sort of fearful, subdued tension that hung thick in the air. John could feel it, and he was sure that no one in the room was oblivious. Something was very wrong, and he was not particularly eager to find out what that something was. Nevertheless, he moved forward to Mr. Frantz’s office. As much as he disliked the man, John could count on him for one thing, and that was an honest answer. If something terrible had truly happened (John was almost positive it had), Mr. Frantz wouldn’t be the type to dance around the topic or try to sugarcoat it. He would tell it however it was, and while this landed his big mouth in trouble more often than not, it was a useful trait from time to time.

            John pushed his way through the small opening in the door, which had been left ajar. He tapped his knuckled gently against its surface, calling, “Mr. Frantz?”

            “Come in, Mr. Walker. Take a seat.” Mr. Frantz hadn’t so much as turned an eye in John’s direction. He had anticipated John’s arrival, just as he anticipated every waking moment of that day and exactly how it would go down. John thought himself a puppet master; if John’s pulling the strings to manipulate puppets, Mr. Frantz must be God pushing the turn of the earth itself.

            Already uneased by the entire aurora of the situation, John reluctantly sat. He didn’t bother to make himself comfortable in the leather upholstery; he had to be prepared for a potential storm out, whether it be caused by anger or urgency.

            Frantz spoke again, his voice calm and even. “Mr. Walker, I understand that we’ve trusted you as the position of the Examiner for some long twenty-three years now.”

            “Consider twenty-three more years a promise,” John interjected.

            Sparing a moment to chuckle dryly, Frantz continued, “You are a vital asset to what we do here. You have always been faithful, compromising, honest… _obedient._ ”

            John’s eyes unintentionally narrowed, and his brows furrowed in synchronization. The embers of what could become a great fire began to collect in his stomach. He breathed smoke. “Just what are you getting at?”

            Mr. Frantz did not chuckle, but only smiled the kind of grin that an alligator might. That kind of look that is meant to have friendly implications, but on a face like that, such association is lost. A smile on a man like Mr. Frantz was nothing more than a sneer. “We have a very special case that has presented itself this morning. The case has been on our radar for some time; it was certainly very extenuating circumstances. After months of examination, we have finally decided to take action.”

            Coals burned steady and strong in his gut. They overturned to sear ulcers into the lining of his stomach, but all of that hurt less than the fear that was swelling inside of him, fear that Mr. Frantz was talking about exactly what John was afraid he was talking about. “What action?”

            The words couldn’t leave Frantz’s lips fast or slow enough. To come too slow would be skin-crawling agony, but to unleash them to quickly would be to launch a surprise attack. Those next few seconds were one of those defining moments, the kind that go in slow motion. John could feel his own heart beating in his chest. He became overly aware of the smallest things contributing to his own composition, the seams of his clothes against his skin, the residual taste of his morning coffee in his mouth, the slight cut of nose that is always in his vision but that the brain chooses to ignore. They all became pressing matters, matters that John would gladly attend to before hearing the words that that bastard of a man was about to utter. Everything was so treacherously slow. The flames tickling in John’s stomach began to lick up and down the walls of his intestines.

            Then Frantz said it, plain and clear as day. There was something so apathetic about the way it was told. He was a perfect person to distribute mundane news, not highly emotional information. Of course, to almost anyone in that office, the news, while unique, was utterly insignificant. “Ezra Jacobs has been recommended for an early Examination.”

            John’s insides were a raging inferno. Flames engulfed each organ as suddenly as they had formed. Twirling smoke billowed throughout his body, floating up through his airway and leaving a fine black residue on everything it touched. He was burning white-hot, and he saw it, too. “You can’t do that. A recommendation doesn’t have to be carried out. It’s a suggestion, not an agenda.”

            “Think of it this way, Johnny Boy. I don’t have the time to explain this, so I’ll have to put it into terms that you can understand. You _recommend_ that we kill each one of those kids, do you not? Yet we take your recommendation and follow through without questioning it.”

            John swallowed. “That’s not fair. You can’t compare the two.”

            “Big words coming from a man who kills to put bread on the table.”

            Seething, John initially spoke in hushed tones. He had to force himself to speak up enough for Frantz to hear, “It’s been a long time.”

            Frantz mocked surprise. “Claire Jones was that long ago?”

“I didn’t know!” John roared.

Frantz held up his hands, telling softly, “Hey, cool down. There’s no use in getting worked up.” He leaned back in his chair confidently, continuing, “There’s nothing you can do, John. We’re asking you to step down, just for this one.”

            Shaking his head vehemently, John spoke. “I can’t allow myself to do that.”

            Frantz shrugged. “It’s not up to you. You won’t work with us; you can’t work with us. There’s nothing else to be done. If you can’t be a team player and-”

            “I’ll examine him,” John cut in. Face solemn, he added, “I will do it.”

            “Are you sure you’re up to the challenge? These are dire times; you have to understand that.”

            John nodded. “I understand, and I intend to fulfill my duty.”

            Frantz smiled again, that fake, alligator grin. “Atta boy. Now we’re cooking with gas.”

            ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

            Ezra came sometime later in the day. He was wheeled in by one of John’s colleagues, who was all too rough with his chair. He didn’t mind that he narrowly dodged dangers such as the edge of desks, the legs of chairs, and the likes. Even his grip on the handles was clenched so tight that John feared they may be reduced to powder.

            The utter fear in the boy’s eyes was so tangible. It took all of John not to comfort him, to remain neutral. Under a normal examination, John and Ezra would be left alone, but due to the situation, the colleague that had wheeled Ezra in was to stay there for the duration of the session.

            John had a plan that he was determined to carry through with. He was going to save Ezra; he owed him that much. Unsure of what he was going to do, the most obvious solution stared him in the face, but only blinked when the session was halfway over.

            So, John treated the last part of the session like any conversation. John asked how school was going, which classes Ezra enjoyed, who were his friends, and the like. To anyone, it would be suitable talk for an examination. However, John had gathered all he needed to know, and the solution was heavy in his face.

            John passed him. He noted that no risks were apparent in Ezra’s actions, cognitive processes, or demeanor. Having insisted that Ezra was a highly efficient, intelligent child and this is what has caused his “disharmony” with his environment, John concluded that Ezra was no threat to anyone and that he merely needed higher stimulation in the classroom. John had hit the nail on the head, and he was so sure of his accomplishment that he had given Ezra a wink as he was wheeled out of the room, that fearful look still on his face, having been calmed only slightly by John’s presence.

            John gathered his report and took himself to Frantz’s office, only to see that he was not there. That was strange, John thought, and stranger still was the fact that all of Frantz’s possessions that he normally carried were strewn about on his desk. John left the office, report on Ezra still in hand. He was desperate to share his findings with anyone who would listen, but particularly to the man who had been the ugly head of the entire project. Without Frantz’s intervention, no examination would have been performed in the first place; John was sure of it.

            Yet, throughout the building John avidly searched for him, making rounds through clustered desks in his pursuit. Around one particularly sharp corner, John ran into the man himself, and he was in such a wild chase that he almost didn’t realize that he had struck gold. He rushed to get Frantz’s attention. “Mr. Frantz! I will have you know that the examination is complete. I think you’ll be rather pleased with the results.”

            Frantz took the papers from John’s hand, his eyes scanning their content easily. He grunted in approval, muttering, “Nice work, Mr. Walker.”

            About to burst at the seams with his growing sense of triumph, John’s illusion of victory was shattered in the moment that he heard it. The sound echoed throughout the building and hit John like a punch in the gut. It was as if that telling noise had shaken the earth to the core.

            Having heard it come from the elevator, John rushed to its closed doors, slamming rapidly against the return button. Seeing that the elevator was going to the basement, John rushed to the stairs, taking them three steps at a time to meet the elevator.

            It was such a distinctive sound that John had never actually been a witness to it, yet he could identify it quicker than anything else. It was the sickening thud of a limp body crashing to the floor.

            Reaching the basement, John saw that the elevator was just approaching. He took off in a full spring to its doors, anxious to find out who had been hurt, or even killed. He had the sourest feeling in the pit of his stomach as those doors opened. He almost thought himself better off never knowing.

            The doors opened, but rather than a slumped figure, Frantz stood there, cool and collected as always. John grabbed him by the front of his blazer, demanding, “What was that noise? Who was hurt?”

            His eyes never left Frantz’s, and only when Frantz’s green eyes shifted to the side did John’s follow suite.

            There it was, abandoned. Worn through years of use and mistakenly recognizable lay Ezra’s overturned wheelchair.

            John wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t consider himself a genius of any proportions by any standards, but to not know what had happened would be sheer denial.

            Then Frantz had the audacity to speak, not only to talk, but to let a name he didn’t deserve to know slither between his rotten lips. “Great stuff you made up about Ezra being a genius; that can help with the cover-up.”

            Frantz was on the floor less than a second after the last consonant had made its final sound. John’s fist had made solid contact, sending him spiraling backwards to the ground, where he lay groaning and holding his jaw. Knuckles white against the guiding handles of the wheelchair, John pushed the empty thing out.

            Punching Frantz hadn’t changed anything and John knew it. It righted no wrongs and offered no change to anything. However, he cannot deny the pure satisfaction derived from the violence. His blood ran hot through his veins and his skin crawled with pleasure, the joy of someone getting what they deserved.

            They killed Ezra Jacobs on a Tuesday, one where John had woken up feeling that something was not right. He could recognize that morning that something was wrong, that somewhere in the universe, a planet was out of align. Aware of the disorder but not the extent, John never could have guessed that it would be his friend’s last day on earth. It was all too much to comprehend; even after the fact, John found himself thinking of Ezra in the present tense, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t linger in front of the boy’s house for some ten minutes on the walk home.

            Pushing the wheelchair down the sidewalks, John broke down. It had taken a long time to set in, and once it did, it hit him harder than anything. Moving forward nonetheless, he let the tears roll down his face in fat streams. He made no attempt to wipe them or to quiet his sobbing- he was in mourning. He had lost someone, and he was finally able to wrap his head around the fact that he would never see Ezra again. Yes, Ezra Jacobs and his tricks were gone for good. Those clattering wheels of his chair were meeting sidewalk for the last time. His room would sit untouched, bed unmade and dirtied clothes strewn about. His parents would be given the nearly insurmountable task of cleaning out the room of their lost son, but they wouldn’t know. They wouldn’t know the exact grief John was feeling; they would miss their son, but of course they will be put under the impression that Ezra has been transferred somewhere else and is alive and well. They don’t know what John does, that as John walks home, Ezra’s blood has come to a standstill and his body stiff. That is, if they hadn’t destroyed his body to the best of their ability.

            When he got home, his wife did her best to console him, but there was nothing she could do. He hadn’t even told her what was wrong; he didn’t want to upset her. She never pried, either, only did all that she could to comfort him because they shared a kind of love that allowed for that to happen. She didn’t need to know all the gruesome details and she didn’t want to, all she wanted was for her husband to feel like his old self again. John wanted that too, more than anything, but a big part of him was certain that he had gone too far, that he would never be like he was before that extraordinary year.


	23. Epilogue

           Ezra’s devastating passing was the hardened, caked over frosting on the dry crumbling mess of a cake that was John’s twenty-third and final year as the Examiner. After returning home to his loving wife Carol, he had a long time to think about everything that had happened. After much careful consideration, he came in the next morning, late to work for the first time in the entirety of his career, and resigned. If Frantz was smirking, John was taking a victory lap. He wanted himself gone, as did the collective whole of his coworkers. They had grown respect for John over the years, and that hadn’t changed. While not everyone knew of Ezra’s passing, those who did remained firm in their outward opinions that it had to be done. However, a few of those with deep hearts and deeper pockets held back their true feelings, the biting guilt about what had been done. They felt remorse for what they did, but they weren’t ever going to admit that. After all, what was done was done; nothing could be changed.

            John spent his time at home with Carol helping her prepare for the baby. Once their bundle of joy finally arrived, he helped his wife to raise her to the best of their ability. John felt a kind of love that he had never felt- well, maybe he felt it once. He loved that little girl with all his heart, and the thought of harm befalling her kept him up at night. There were nights where he didn’t sleep at all; hours that he spent tossing and turning over the disturbing truth that someday, not too far in the future, she would be Examined herself. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, if she was to actually leave his life, he could almost guarantee he would go mad.

            Abigail Walker, that’s what they named her. Having been the sweetest, most quiet baby John had ever seen, it only made sense that she would grow up to be a spunky, go-lucky young girl with a fire in her eyes and a lilt to her step. She took after Carol more than John, both in looks and personality. A bubbly child, she could talk for hours if you let her. John found that she would discuss almost anything, although she particularly enjoyed conversations centered around animals. Each minute seemed to bring a new topic, and every few weeks a new obsession. She fell in and out of phases over and over, sometimes regressing to former passions before abandoning them for a new idea. For about two weeks, she was absolutely infatuated with ribbons. It was ribbons in her hair, ribbons tied around her wrists, hell, she even looped great red satin ribbon down the staircase and asked for help to tie it to the banister. Another time, it was puzzles. During her playtime, she refused to do anything except work on a puzzle. John had dug up dozens of old cardboard pieces for her to play with, and she liked to mix and match pieces from different puzzle sets to see if any fit (in earlier years, John would have despised this, but as a father, he let it go). Once, for about three days, Abigail was utterly fascinated by the concept of pregnancy. Then, something stranger happened. It was around the time that Abigail turned four, and as inquisitive as always, she’d asked John directly, “Do you think that superpowers are real?”

            Still elbow-deep in dishwater as he cleaned, John had chuckled. “What do you mean? Like angels?”

            She thought for a moment, answered, “Well, can they do really neat things? Like run really fast or fly?”

            John nodded, answered, “Angels can do whatever they want. God gives them abilities to help take care of us.”

John’s expression faltered and his heart hit a beat extra heavy. Abigail kept talking, “Did you ever know a person like that?”

            Withdrawing his hands and drying them on a towel, John had bent down to her eye level, kneeling in front of her. Placing a hand around her cheek, he told very solemnly, “I did know someone like that.”

            Her green eyes had widened with wonder. “Wow! I bet that was really cool!”

            John nodded, agreeing, “For a while, it was. They were more than powers, sweetie. He had gifts. He helped people with them. He did great things.”

            John stood, turning his back on his daughter to finish his chore. He hadn’t so much as laid a finger on the dishes when she asked, “What happened to him?’

            Glancing over his shoulder, John replied, this time with a lighter playfulness in his demeanor. “What do you think? He became an angel.”


End file.
